


Dreams and Darkness Collide

by Epic Solemnity (Dark_Cyan_Star)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Cat & Mouse, Crime/Horror, Dark, Dark Harry, Dubious Morality, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Justice, M/M, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 209,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Cyan_Star/pseuds/Epic%20Solemnity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major AU! SLASH LV/HP: Though he was raised without the expectation of saving the world, Harry still possesses a savior complex. Only, it's so dark and twistedly immoral, he created an alter ego to practice vigilantism. His second identity makes a name for himself and immediately ensnares Minister Riddle's complete and obsessive attention. A game of cat and mouse begins and morals are questioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Inspired by Dexter. Hannibal. Death Note, etc. Major AU. Slight gore/torture. Dark themes. SLASH between Harry and… Voldemort (Tom Riddle) (though, if you're reading this just for slash, I'd advise you to hurry and exit). It's light (well, dark in nature, but light as in its not heavy) and it's slow-going. Also, a small, small bit of Harry/Ginny
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Chapter One:**

"P-please…"

Albert Kinley whimpered fearfully on the ground.

His body stiffened and turned motionless, unable to move anything but his mouth and eyes. A pool of thick, ruby blood haloed around his blond hair, staining the silky strands a distorted pink. Albert breathed harshly through his nostrils, his eyes dancing fretfully back and forth as he watched the dark and lithe figure pace back and forth. The man moved with such grace, power, and confidence.

It was a far cry from what Albert normally observed from the man during the day: the awkward twitch, the uneven steps, and the poor posture.

" _Please_!" he screamed hoarsely.

The dark figure crouched before him, his vibrant green eyes so very unnatural. They were usually hidden behind thick frames, but tonight, this man... _this entity_... seemed like a whole new identity.

"What are you begging for?" A lazy smile played across the young man's sculptured lips. "It sounds beautiful, dear Albert, but it's falling on deaf ears. You will get _no_ mercy from me."

Albert gave a thick cry of disagreement as the sharp blade twirled expertly in his captor's fingers, the tip dancing so close to his vulnerable skin. The boy was taunting him, trying to strike fear in him.

And it worked.

"Why?" Albert asked breathlessly.

His naked body shuddered against the freezing temperature of the room, but that was the least of his worries. A searing and burning wound bled across his neck. The metallic smell of blood was overwhelming, but he knew that wasn't all he would need to endure.

"Why?" the boy mockingly repeated. A single black eyebrow arched highly. "I love when they ask that."

Albert swallowed painfully, desperate for anyone to hear him. Just upstairs, his wife and three young children slept. Surely his screams could reach them? Though, judging from the self-assured smirk on the boy's face, he speculated his hopes were for naught.

Through wide and disbelieving eyes, Albert watched as the boy leaned away, arching down toward Albert's lower regions. A gloved hand pressed against his belly and slowly slid down to his private area. The fingers raked through his pubic hair before settling against his groin.

Albert squeezed his eyes shut, fear and humility burning his stomach and chest.

And then... rather abruptly... his emotions took a sharp turn. For the worse. It was out of his control, he couldn't… he couldn't _understand_! Instead of fear, he felt an overwhelming sense of lust. Albert groaned in horror as his cock hardened almost painfully and most certainly unnaturally.

"Why?" the boy repeated again. "It's because you lot make me _ill_. Really, I taste you. I see you. I can feel what you're feeling…" his captor cast a disgusted look at Albert. "I can feel how tainted and greasy your soul really is."

Albert rolled his eyes upward as the tip of the knife traced the underbelly of his erection. "Oh _god_ , please no."

"Oh _god, yes._ " The boy smiled thinly. "I think it's only fair." Suddenly, the teasing and playful expression on his captive's face vanished, leaving only a dark and dangerous gleam in its place. "Those two little girls…" the boy trailed off. "What were their names again? Erica and Sandra. A pair of innocent seven-year-olds you thought appropriate enough to fuck until they bled senseless. Your filthy DNA should have been proof enough to convict you, but you lot... you powerful politicians always have an inside man, don't you?"

"No, no," Albert denied. "I never touched those girls!"

"Lies!"

The tip of the knife dug into his erection, drawing a piercing scream from the unfortunate man. "Ok! Ok!'" Albert cried, still somehow feeling the powerful lust despite the obvious pain and horror. It was unnatural. As if the boy could somehow…

"I did it! I did it! Please, stop. Please. I couldn't control myself! What I did was wrong, I know."

Green eyes slowly slid from Albert's erection to his face. For a moment, the boy's impassive expression gave Albert a flicker of hope. "If you truly felt remorse, I would be able to feel it. Just as I felt how scarred and torn those girls were after your treatment. They will never be the same. Ever. And neither will you." A spark of insanity entered the clear, green eyes. "I will enjoy this immensely."

The blade raised and Albert saw his sunken and pale face staring back at him through the bloody reflection.

"Please… Harry! Please, no!"

The blade lowered aggressively.

**. . Dreams . .**

"…reinforces our theory that _Custos_ is a man."

Kingsley glanced away from the Auror Investigator when the Minister of Magic entered the room. The Head Auror motioned the man over; mindful to keep his expression impassive when the victim's family peeked inside the open doorway.

As soon as the door closed, however, his face clouded darkly.

"Is it him?" the Minister inquired, walking around the naked body of Albert Kinley.

The older wizard had an air of importance and grace as his dark eyes assessed the mutilated body. In particular, his eyes strayed near the dismembered manhood. All the men in the room winced, their groins throbbing in pity.

"Him?" Kinsley growled in question. "You mean _Custos_? Yes. Who else would it be?"

The Minister offered him a withering look before he continued to assess the Unspeakables as they collected samples of fibers and blood, _anything_ they could get their hands on. Their wands moved near the body, alerting them to any blood or fluid that had been previously wiped clean. Aside from Kinley's blood, they were coming up empty-handed.

As they always had.

 _Custos_ was the name the press gave Britain's recent serial killer. It translated to 'protector' or 'keeper' in English. Both a fitting and glorified name for a killer who sought his victims based on past crimes they committed. All of _Custos'_ victims were tried or accused of a crime, but never prosecuted. Some would say _Custos_ was a hero, perhaps, for ridding society of scum that were never punished for the crime they committed.

But Kingsley disagreed wholeheartedly.

 _Custos_ was no better than the victims he killed. And he hated that damn name. As much as Kingsley wanted to change it to something more neutral, the press had gotten hold of the story and twisted it into something of fictional bullshit. This publicity and fame was most likely going to their killer's head.

"Britain hasn't seen a serial killer in decades. The closest was Grindelwald," Sirius Black murmured to the quiet room. "Most importantly, killings like this are extremely rare in the Wizarding World. It's ruthless, bloody, and almost Muggle. _Custos_ doesn't use magic in his killings." The Auror walked around the body. "While it is a long process, there _are_ ways to track magical signatures. Muggle means are also traceable, but not from the bare clues he's leaving behind."

"Which means _Custos_ is intelligent," the Minister murmured in consideration. "From the look of things, he was watching our friend here for a long while."

The group of Auror Investigators turned their attention on Minister Riddle, a man of power, influence, and charm.

Riddle must have been in his mid-seventies, yet his age did not distract from the sharp aristocratic planes on his face. His hair was parted to the side in a short cut with many strands of silver staining the once midnight black. Usually Kingsley saw a strict mask of impassiveness, if not handsome boredom.

But today, those brown eyes were bright behind his glasses.

"Albert Kinley's accusation of double rape was cleared five weeks ago. With it, the media stopped reporting and the public turned their attention elsewhere. Which means our boy is patient. He waits until his prey has relaxed before striking." Riddle crouched next to the prone figure of Albert Kinley, seemingly not bothered by the corpse. But by now, they were all accustomed.

"His past victims were also convicted and released of charges weeks, if not months before their deaths."

Eight deaths so far. The first two were sloppy, and yet, there hadn't been any evidence, any use of magic at the crime scenes. _Custos_ arrived on the scene five months ago and the Ministry had yet to identify their serial killer.

"But," Riddle continued, "His confidence is reaching its prime. Not only due to the cleanliness of the crime scenes, but the amount of killings. The time between each victim is becoming less and less."

"Which means we have to catch this bastard before he gets the chance to fine-tune his _skill_ ," Wilkinson barked. "His motives may be enchanting to the public, but he strives for attention. Soon, he will run out of criminals to kill and he'll be turning to innocents to satisfy his lust."

It was a good theory, Kingsley thought, and yet, his attention was on the Minister's doubtful expression.

"Do you have another theory, Minister?"

When Tom Riddle became Minister four years ago, it had taken the Ministry employees a long while to swallow Riddle's aggressive involvement. Unlike Fudge, Riddle took an active part in running the Ministry. It wasn't surprising to find Riddle jumping between the Departments and working alongside the employees for a short while. The man's sharp intelligence and wide range of abilities made it possible for Riddle to offer useful aid to any of the Departments. With time, it didn't take long for the politicians and employees at the Ministry to admire Riddle.

Of course, many also admired Riddle before he became Minister. Almost sickeningly so. The man had been a respected Professor at Hogwarts before dabbling with politics.

Though, some wizards found it hard to accept an outsider in their Department, even if it _was_ the Minister.

For example, there were investigators in the Auror division that wanted to prove themselves worthy of a promotion in the ranks. But when Riddle constantly intervened, it made it nearly impossible to voice their opinions on the subject. Kingsley wanted to give his men a chance, but when it came to their current serial killer, he needed all the useful input he could obtain.

The man was a control freak and he held his Ministry and the people within it possessively. He seemed to know everyone's name and interests and he used that to his advantage. To have someone like _Custos_ directly challenging Riddle and his Ministry probably gave the Minister a drive to be just as involved in this case as the Aurors.

Kingsley knew one thing. He would move hell and earth just to be with Riddle when they confronted _Custos_.

"Though the theory is sound, I disagree with Auror Wilkinson." Riddle bowed his head, peering closer at the corpse's face. "This is not for attention. This is no game to the man. If it were a game, he would be leaving us clues and playing with his victims. An attacker could stab his victim countless of times before they die, unless they knew the human anatomy well. _Custos_ was able to kill his victim by a direct stab to his chest, killing the man instantly."

"And what of the cock?" one Auror exclaimed sharply. "And the neck? It looks like he's bloody playing to me!"

Riddle offered the man a cool stare, only continuing when the younger Auror glanced away. "Black," Riddle addressed the Auror nearby. "You agree our killer is male, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Black nodded sharply. "Judging from the number of bruises on Kinley's body, I'd say it would be a larger male we're looking at. Probably larger than Kinely himself. Six feet five inches? Two hundred and twenty pounds, possibly."

"It does seem possible." Riddle's grin suggested he was simply humoring Black. "Though, _I'd_ wager that we have a very lithe, if not thin, male. Perhaps average height." His brown eyes swept across Black's face. "There are physical combatting arts, are there not? Just because one may be female or a small male doesn't mean they have a handicap."

One of the three female Aurors placed her hands on her hips, eyeing Sirius Black unhappily.

Riddle offered a small smile. "Considering our killer uses physical and medical as means as sedating, I would guess we have a wizard who is strongly related to the Muggle world. Or, perhaps, we have an individual linked to authority."

"Authority?" a sandy blond questioned hesitantly.

"Look at the bruise pattern on the arms," Wilkinson spoke for Riddle, motioning toward the arms. "It resembles a technique the Aurors teach their recruits and students when they go through training camp."

Silence stretched across the room at the possibility of the killer being one of their own. Kingsley clenched his fists briefly. Wilkinson was correct. The bruises were precise and so unique of a pattern that it _had_ to be the offensive combating techniques they taught their Aurors.

"The bruises are small, meaning our male does not have an impressive stature. Perhaps aristocratic," Riddle spoke airily, if bored. "I'm certain he was wearing gloves?"

The Unspeakable waving her wand over the bruises gave an affirmative as she studied the results. "Leather gloves."

Riddle stood from his crouched position and smiled darkly. "Our killer's lithe stature could also explain the cut around the throat. This is usually used from behind to control their victims." Brown eyes danced toward the young Auror who had interrupted earlier. "That would explain the neck wound. As for the _cock_ dismemberment, it is a direct relation to Kinley's alleged rape. Our killer is serving his brand of justice. He does not _play_."

"He enjoys it!" Wilkinson growled.

Riddle gave a cold, lipless smile. "Yes, I'm certain he does enjoy it. But he will not kill anyone he deems 'innocent'."

"We're looking for an average male, most likely Caucasian," Black spoke into his wand, recording any necessary notes and reminders. "Connected to the Auror training camps and physical combat. He's precise, intelligent, confident, most likely a narcissist… which means he was probably in Slytherin…" the man muttered quietly, ignoring the exasperated looks from his team members.

"Dominant," Riddle mused, a ghost of a smile across his face.

Kingsley became instantly suspicious at the Minister's obvious enthusiasm.

"We are dealing with an Alpha male who goes against the norms and challenges authority. He sees himself as the only _one_ who can take justice into his own hands. To be the hero to those who can't take revenge. He's working alone. I also wager that he's either connected to the Aurors or in a position of power during the day, either a lawyer or a doctor. He needs to be neat and orderly."

"Yes. Yes. But can we all address the elephant in the room?" Black questioned after recording the necessary notes.

The Aurors and Unspeakables paused in what they were doing, looking at the corpse's face.

"How the hell do all his victims die with smiles on their faces? As if they _love_ the killing? There are no pain medications in the victims' system. They feel everything. So why are their faces so relaxed when their death was obviously painful?"

Kingsley kept a piercing eye on Riddle as the man placed a fist to his mouth in contemplation.

"He could manipulate their faces post-mortem…" someone suggested.

It was a sound explanation, but Kingsley was quick enough to spy Riddle's doubt.

**. . Darkness . .**

Harry ran a hand threw his disorderly hair, trying to wipe off the spilt coffee on his shirt with his opposite hand, all the while, clutching a cup of coffee. The passengers in the lift gave him a distasteful look as a few dribbles of hot coffee dropped on the lift floor. He scrambled to make the coffee level, meanwhile, flashing a bashful grin toward the watchful occupants.

"So sorry," he mumbled, watching as one woman brushed off her coffee-stained high heels with a handkerchief.

She breathed heavily before offering him a strained smile. "Perhaps you should put a Levitating Charm on the coffee next time. Or a spell to prevent spills. You _are_ a wizard, dear, are you not?" As soon as the lift came to a halt, she pushed passed him and hurried down the corridor.

Always in a hurry.

Harry moved awkwardly to the side of the corridor, keeping his head down as the others passed him. He twisted the top of the coffee cup and watched the group beneath unruly bangs. They were such sheep. The lot of them. It was always so painfully obvious during Monday mornings at the Ministry, especially after a long weekend.

He couldn't necessarily fault them. They were, for the most part, innocent. But their innocence also bordered the line of complete stupidity and a voluntary sense of naivety. How could they not see that the world they lived in was corrupt? Politicians ruled the world and got away with crimes that no man should ever commit.

Harry carefully raked his fingernails through his hair once more, intensely ruffling it to the point of torture. These people saw what they wanted. Harry clenched his jaw and breathed angrily through his nostrils as his fingers tightened on the cup of coffee.

"Fools," he muttered angrily to himself.

He rolled his neck upward, a nervous twitch to his upper lip as his fingers trembled. Now was most definitely not the time for breakdowns.

Since his parent's death, and his own near-death experience, he was prone to breakdowns. The incident happened two years ago, yet it relentlessly haunted him. He was only twenty-one-years-old, yet he was weary and exhausted. He had nightmares, compulsive disorders, and a secret so dark, even he was disgusted at times.

However, despite that disgust, he would never regret it. He couldn't. It was what kept him sane in this mundane and corrupt world. After his parents' brutal murder, and after their murderer walked free, Harry's whole persona changed dramatically.

And not for the best.

 _No!_ Now wasn't the time to think of the past or his demons. That was reserved for weekends. _His_ weekends.

Just as Harry tightened the coffee lid, someone bumped into his shoulder, sending the cup flying. Vibrant green eyes narrowed into slits as he watched the coffee splash and splatter across the corridor. He snapped his neck around, staring dully at the man who had pushed into him. His sharp stare met with equally, if not more, piercing eyes.

Harry blinked, his face melting into his practiced awkwardness.

"So sorry, my boy," the Minister apologized. Riddle raised his chin and looked down his nose at the defeated Harry. "Mr. Potter, isn't it?"

Harry lowered his chin in submission, though, his whole body protested. It was for appearances, for protection. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Someday, _someday_ he would be comfortable enough with himself to show the true side of his personality. It was still too early, still too new for him.

"Yes, Minister."

He could count on one hand how many times he encountered Riddle. It was always just in passing and the man never noticed or spoke to him. But _everyone_ knew the Minister. Harry couldn't overlook the man, no matter how irritatingly good the man was at sprinkling sugary-sweet praise to everyone in his path.

Politians were hideous.

Riddle grunted. "I apologize. I'm in a hurry; otherwise, I would purchase you a new cup of coffee. Perhaps another time?" The offer for future interaction was hopeful, yet the underlying fib did little to enforce the genuine nature.

Unfazed and uninterested, Harry looked beyond Riddle's shoulder, catching sight of Sirius with a group of his fellow Aurors. When Sirius noticed Harry, the older man perked up and swam through the crowd to reach him. Good. A necessary and welcome distraction. Harry wasn't too fond of Riddle, especially when the man tasted so _unfamiliar_ to him.

In fact, the whole corridor, which slowly began to crowd with Aurors, had a dark taste to it.

Somber.

Harry knew exactly what caused the solemnity. His born empath abilities permitted him to feel others' emotions and to manipulate them. Presently, the group of Aurors were disturbed over their recent find. On the opposite spectrum, Riddle's emotions remained elusive. It was if a solid wall erected between them, blocking any emotions coming from the other man.

It must have been Occlumency. Either that, or Riddle just didn't have emotions. Whatever it was, it calmed Harry but also unnerved him. He had never met someone he couldn't read before with the exception of his old Headmaster.

 _Ah,_ Dumbledore. That man had been the highlight of Harry's education at Hogwarts.

"Harry!" Sirius reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. "It's good to see you. You're right on time, every Monday morning with my cup of java." The man's smile dimmed as he noticed the split coffee and the presence of Riddle standing before him. "Minister Riddle, you know Harry, my godson."

Harry spied Riddle from beneath his lashes, observing the man as he observed him back.

Riddle blinked, turning to look at Sirius, effectively breaking eye contact with Harry. "Of course," the politician responded, as if insulted. He was, after all, known for his uncanny ability to identify almost every single employee within the Ministry. "I believe he works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, am I correct?"

"You're correct," Sirius responded for Harry. His chest suddenly puffed out with pride. "He used to be a Seeker for the English National Quidditch team. They took him right after he graduated."

Oh _Merlin._ Was Sirius really acting the proud father? Harry smirked lightly, keeping his head down. It suited Sirius. His godfather didn't have any children himself and quickly stepped in as Harry's protective guardian when James and Lily passed away. Harry had no qualms about Sirius' involvement. It did not hinder him.

"Indeed," Riddle responded, bored underneath his false sense of interest. "That _is_ impressive. Though, I'm afraid I must get going, you as well, Mr. Black. It was nice meeting you finally, Mr. Potter."

Harry weakly shook the offered hand, wanting more than anything to crush the man's hand.

As the man swept down the corridor, Harry watched him go, noticing the man didn't look back. It was a bit disappointing, actually. Tom Riddle was supposed to be beyond brilliant. But he was just like the rest of them. He only saw what he wanted. Harry Potter, godson of Sirius Black, was an awkward and antisocial young wizard, not Riddle's ideal serial killer.

"He's on the case now?" Harry inquired, watching Riddle enter the Auror offices.

Sirius' face darkened. "Bastard," he muttered quietly. "He always pokes his nose in the Departments. Of course he took an interest in our Department at a time like this. He'll take away the limelight where it's due and shower himself with it. "

"Is that so?" Harry mused. "He hasn't worked in _my_ Department."

Sirius chuckled pressing his hand against Harry's head. "Be lucky. The man takes over everything. He's a bloody prude, that's what he is…"

The man continued badmouthing the Minister, oblivious as Harry directed his intensity in the direction of Riddle. The young Potter observed the Minister through the glass windows. Harry could easily see the dominance in the man's stance and the sheer arrogance. While Riddle liked to parade his humility around the Ministry, Harry could clearly see the real man beneath.

There was _something_ about the man that Harry couldn't identify.

It was obvious that Riddle thought pretty highly of himself. He liked to interact with those considered _beneath_ him, but Harry knew he could barely tolerate their presence. Just now, Harry knew it took a great deal of restrain on Riddle's behalf to interact with Harry. If Riddle didn't have a reputation to uphold, Harry was certain the man wouldn't have even stopped to apologize after bumping into him.

Suddenly, Riddle looked up, meeting Harry's eyes through the glass. For the first time in ages, Harry turned cold. Was it possible Harry could be found out? Would Tom Riddle be the man who would find a way to prove Harry's guilt?

No.

No one was that good with the exception of Harry himself.

Riddle walked over to the windows, drawing Harry's close attention. The Minister motioned Sirius inside before slamming the blinds closed, dismissing Harry's attentiveness. The younger wizard stood there stiffly, insulted. His anger bubbled to the surface at the man's overwhelming arrogance. It clashed horribly with Harry's pride.

"He seems rather fond of you, though," Harry spoke with barely suppressed anger.

His hands clenched at his sides as he considered Riddle. Was this man truly a threat?

He wouldn't know until things unraveled further, but he did know one thing. Harry would have to watch the man closely _and_ Sirius. He wouldn't stand in the face of Riddle's manipulations as the Minister twisted Sirius. Sirius was _his_ godfather, not Riddle's puppet. Riddle could be possessive when it came to his Ministry and the workers within it, but Harry was just as territorial.

"Who _wouldn't_ be interested in me?" Sirius pondered aloud, a thoughtful look to his face before he broke down in hearty barks of laughter.

It took Harry a moment to realize it was his cue to grin. He was absorbed in Riddle, and the possible threat the man carried, that his reactions were sluggish. Sirius quieted when he saw through Harry's clumsy recovery. A heavy hand thumped him on the back, cupping the back of his neck.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Sirius asked quietly.

Harry easily recovered, smiling grimly at his godfather. He held true affection for Sirius, something he rarely felt nowadays since the attack. "Yeah, just a bit disorientated, I suppose." He glanced down at the spilt coffee. "Sorry about the coffee."

"No problem, kid," Sirius squeezed his neck once more before waving his wand and cleaning up the mess. "Are we on for lunch today?"

"Of course," Harry agreed, grinning. "That is, if you can get away. I'll assume if I don't see you that you were held prisoner by Riddle."

Sirius winked as he made his way toward the Auror offices. Harry watched him go, his smile slowly darkening into a frown. Despite his cautiousness, Harry was a bit thrilled with the challenge of covering his tracks with a whole team of Aurors after him. It wasn't any different from the past few months, but now Riddle had taken a special interest in the case.

In _him_.

Harry looked forward to throwing Riddle off his game and making the man look like a fool in front of the whole Ministry.

**. . Collide . .**

Kingsley slowly advanced forward, stalking the man sitting at the table with piles of files and scrolls surrounding him. If Kingsley hadn't monitored the Minister throughout the day, he would have been oblivious to the man's current location. How _odd_ that the man was taking such an interest in the _Custos_ case that he buried himself down in the Records Department.

"Find anything useful?" Kingsley asked in his deep, baritone voice.

Riddle jumped lightly, a predictable reaction, casting a startled look at Kingsley from over his shoulder. "Auror Shacklebolt," he breathed, relieved. "I was unaware you were taking an interest in following me around the Ministry." The smile the Minister wore possessed a certain tension.

Kingsley cleared his throat and stepped into the small room, shutting the door behind him. From years of practice and skill, Kingsley kept his approach to the Minister as quiet and cautious as possible. His hand brushed his wand holster out of habit as he came to a stop near Riddle's chair. His dark eyes cast a glance around the files before settling on the Minister's expected face.

"I need to know if we're on the same side," Kingsley murmured quietly.

Riddle raised a finely shaped eyebrow. "Regarding?"

" _C_ _ustos_ ," Kingsley stressed.

The Minister frowned. "I… forgive me, Auror Shacklebolt, but I can't seem to remember a time when I gave you the impression that I was in alliance with a serial killer."

Riddle's tone made Kingsley feel foolish for even asking, but he also knew it was a political tactic used to pacify and control conversation. Kingsley placed a hand on the desk before leaning his back against it. "Then you must forgive me, Minister Riddle, for my bold question." He looked down at Riddle's relaxed hands on top of the desk. "But you seemed to take a rather strong interest toward _Custos_ this morning. And you seem to dedicate your time looking through old court files when you haven't spoken about this lead to any of my men."

"Excuse an old man's interest, Kingsley," Riddle smiled thinly. "I regret feeling this intrigued by someone so brutal and cruel, but you must understand that I take this personally. It's been five months and you and your team have yet to come up with anything."

It was an insult underneath an airy confession. Kingsley adjusted his stance to a more defensive posture.

"As far as the court files, it was a sudden strike of intuition. I didn't want to share my suspicions if they proved wrong." Riddle took off his spectacles and rubbed a handkerchief across the lenses. "Perhaps I'm a bit paranoid, Auror Shacklebolt, but is there another reason behind your earlier accusations?"

"Accusations? It was not meant to be an accusation, Minister." He locked gazes with equally dark eyes and found himself confessing. "There have been rumors of a secret group composed of skilled and dangerous individuals that work for our Ministry. While I don't disagree to such an elite team, I do disagree if the participants involve certain serial killers. _Custos_ warrants a punishment he rightfully deserves."

Riddle stared at him hard and cold before he broke out into a wide smile. Chuckles escaped past the man's teeth as he nodded pleasantly at Kingsley. "It's always amusing to hear what the employees conjure up as rumors, Kingsley. I can reassure you there is no 'elite team' under my control." Riddle chuckled once again. "I have Aurors and Unspeakables to do that work. Besides, political negotiations are always the correct step in ruling a country, don't you agree?"

"Yes, yes of course."

Kingsley pushed off from the desk, rubbing the back of his head in quiet shame. It had been just a rumor, he knew, but he _had_ to confirm it himself. He coughed politely in his fist and motioned toward the case files in front of Riddle.

"Have you found anything useful?" he inquired in a lighter tone.

Riddle surveyed his bowed head before shuffling through some papers. "Actually, I _did_ come across something rather intriguing. Before the charges were dropped, all of _Custos'_ victims were brought to trial or accused of crimes." Riddle placed his glasses back on his nose and tapped the cover of a closed file. "Out of all eight victims, the ones who made it to trial had something in common."

Kingsley straightened, his eyes widening a fraction. "Yes?"

"They had different lawyers defending them and their cases, but the lawyer for the plaintiffs was consistent for eighty percent of our victims."

"Who?" Kinsley demanded sharply, unable to believe they had their first lead.

It would make sense. The prosecutor who represented the plaintiffs would have been tittered to lose the case for their clients. They would be insulted to know a rapist or murderer walked free, thus, they would seek their revenge by killing. And Riddle also said _Custos_ likely held a position of power during the day. A lawyer had a great deal of power.

Riddle stood up.

"Hermione Granger."


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"Ms. Granger."

Kingsley shut his mouth with a disgruntled _snap._

Beside him, Sirius Black glowered as Riddle pushed past them and approached the young woman. If it continued like this, it wouldn't be long until Riddle took complete control over the Law Enforcement Department. Kingsley had already spied the man looking for leads by himself and now the Minister insisted he accompany them as they questioned Hermione Granger.

Originally, Sirius Black was going to speak to Miss Granger. He was familiar with her and Kingsley thought an informal approach would be more effective. With the Minister questioning the young witch, it would force an immediate defensive mechanism. Riddle was her superior and she would most likely feel threatened.

Granger turned, her unruly curls tied to the nape of her neck in a proper bun.

"Yes?" She looked flustered, as if she'd just come from a meeting that hadn't gone well. "Minister Riddle," she exclaimed in quiet surprise. "What can I do for you?" She then caught sight of the two Aurors behind him and paled. "And Aurors Shacklebolt and Black…"

The two Aurors gave a quick nod in greeting.

"I hope you're not busy, Ms. Granger," Riddle began in a ridiculously suave tone. He held out his hand for her to shake, his eyes a mix between admiration and intrigue.

"I have to meet with a client shortly, but I have a few minutes to spare." She shook his hand firmly. "What can I help you with?"

Kingsley watched the Minister closely, noticing the man's posture. Did Riddle truly believe Granger was _Custos_? It was unlikely. While Granger had the brains for their killer, she didn't have the strength. She was short and petite. And while they were looking for a lithe and small male, Granger looked as if she couldn't hold her own against the stature of their victims.

Sirius pushed his way forward, earning a warning look from Riddle.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions regarding your line of work," Riddle started, moving them to a more secluded area in the corridor. "I've read your file. Your credentials are rather impressive. One of the youngest prosecutors to make an appearance in our Ministry in decades. And you graduated from Hogwarts with the highest score of NEWTs…"

"With the exception of you, Minister Riddle," Granger replied brightly. "I was just one point away from reaching your score. I'm afraid Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn't my strongest subject. One of my classmates tutored me. If it wasn't for him, I don't think I would have had the NEWTs I needed to continue on to Law school."

"Now you're just being modest, Ms. Granger," Kingsley praised, smiling. He was familiar with Miss Granger from the endless praise he received from the late Albus Dumbledore. The old Headmaster claimed Granger was a very bright witch. Kingsley would have to agree with him, if only from their first encounter.

"Who was your tutor?" Riddle questioned, seemingly asking to humor her, his tone not at all interested at the current topic.

"Harry Potter," Granger responded fondly.

At this, Riddle snapped his head around to survey Sirius deviously. "I was unaware Mr. Potter took his schooling seriously. I would have thought Quidditch occupied his thoughts and time."

Sirius' face turned deep crimson and a vein throbbed visibly at his temple. Kingsley stiffened, readying to intervene.

Auror Black was extremely protective of his godson and everyone knew not to comment on Harry Potter's lack of… well… enthusiasm. The boy was respectful and athletic, but that's all Kingsley knew about the late Potter's son. James, on the other hand, had been an upheld citizen of Britain. He worked his arse off to become one of the leading Aurors.

His wife, Lily, had been an intelligent young woman just as well. She had worked as an Unspeakable, he believed.

It was a pity they died the way they had. From what Kingsley knew, Harry had never been the same after the attack.

"Actually, Sirius, Minister Riddle is right," Hermione began hesitantly, placing a placating hand on Sirius' arm. "Harry is a _very_ generous wizard. He just never put his efforts into school. He did enough to get by. I believe, if he had put his mind in his schoolwork, he would have been brilliant. But Quidditch is what he's best at." She cocked her head to the side. "Don't you believe one must excel at their natural born talents, Minister?"

"I do," Riddle returned smoothly. "I meant no disrespect; I was just taken aback to know that Mr. Potter had an intellect bone in his body."

Kingsley blinked. Before he could process the new insult to Mr. Potter, Riddle continued.

"Doubtless of your Hogwarts background, you have come a long way. You're Muggle-born, correct?"

"I am," Granger replied with her head lifted.

"It must be difficult. I understand that there may be discriminatory behavior toward you. Not only because pure-bloods mainly take positions as prosecutors, but because you are a young woman." Riddle cocked his head to the side, offering the young lawyer an understanding look. "You offer your services to lower salary clients, yes?"

Granger nodded tensely. "With all due respect, Minister, I am unsure where you're trying to…"

"Your success rate is rather low," Riddle continued without much care. "Does it bother you that the outcomes of your cases may be predetermined before you even have a chance to prove yourself in court? It must grate on your nerves to see a murderer or a rapist walk away because of your age and blood and not as a result of your abilities."

Kingsley leaned back on his heels, exhaling past the thick tension. While he agreed Riddle's methods were harsh, they were also effective. He could see Granger turn flustered and disconcerted. It did bring more light to the situation. Riddle was a right bastard, but he was on the right track. It was not a mere coincidence that Granger was the prosecutor linking their victims together.

However, just because Kingsley saw Riddle's methods as effective didn't mean Black did. The Auror took a step forward, reaching for Riddle's arm in an aggressive manner. "I think that's enough—"

Swiftly, Riddle caught Sirius wrist in midair, moving too quickly for a man in his seventies. " _Silence,_ " Riddle hissed darkly.

Kingsley stared, surprised. In all ways, Riddle resembled an irritated predator. The Minister's position was strong and dominant as it angled defensively toward Black. The man's shoulders were set and his hand kept a solid hold on Black's hand as he angled it down and away from him.

"Sirius." Kingsley motioned for Black to come closer. "Let him finish—"

"Hermione is innocent," Sirius whispered heatedly to Kingsley. "And she doesn't need to be treated as if she's _scum_."

"I will talk to him when he's finished," Kingsley pacified before turning back to Riddle. He was thankful the man found a connection, but he also had to forewarn Riddle that there _were_ boundaries, even for his position as a Minister.

"I think anyone in my position would be frustrated, Minister Riddle," Granger tautly answered the Minister's earlier question. "I still don't understand where you're going with this."

"One more thing, Ms. Granger," Riddle continued. "It is human nature to vent one's frustrations to another. Surely you have confided in someone about your cases, correct? A boyfriend, perhaps? Parents?"

"Yes," Granger huffed. "I do."

Riddle leaned forward. "Their names."

Granger looked at Sirius before surveying Riddle. "Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. At times I talk to Ginny Weasley about it as well… and Sirius Black…" she trailed off as all eyes turned in the direction of Auror Black.

Riddle turned back to Granger, bowing sharply at the waist. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Granger. I apologize if I came across as too harsh, but we are merely investigating an active case. Your cooperation was most helpful. I hope to have the pleasure of speaking with you again."

As Riddle turned to leave, Kingsley followed. This investigating method was new to Kingsley, and frankly, it was new to the whole Department. Crimes like this were rare. When someone was murdered, magic led them to the perpetrator. Most hate crimes in the Wizarding world were committed out of personal vendetta. There were no _random_ acts like _Custos—_ no serial killers _._ It just didn't happen.

"Minister Riddle," Kingsley began, hurrying alongside the man.

Riddle turned suddenly, taking an advancing step forward. "No word of complaint from you, Auror Shacklebolt. I have half the mind to take you and your team off this case due to conflict of interest." His eyes rose and took in a lingering Black. "Some of _us_ are too close to the suspects and the case. Not only that, but there is a strong possibility that _Custos_ is connected to the Aurors."

"You…" Kingsley began with a loss for words. "You can't do that."

"But I can," Riddle continued. "I can easily assign this case to foreigners who are not so closely involved." He stopped within inches of Kingsley, his height almost dwarfing the naturally tall man. "From here on out, _I_ am in charge of this case. Understood?"

A fierce ascendancy lightened the man's eyes. Kingsley had to remind himself that Riddle _was_ the Minister and he held the Ministry and everyone in it with an iron fist. Kingsley could do nothing but bow his head in submission.

"Yes, Minister, I understand."

"Good," the Minister praised, his face morphing into elderly kindness. "Because I look forward to working with you, Kingsley."

**. . Dreams . .**

Harry snapped his head up as soon as he felt the turmoil of emotions approach his office. The leading emotions were exasperation, offense, and a general consensus of resentment. His sharp hearing identified the group as Sirius and two other wizards. However, Sirius' emotions were different from this morning when Harry had first observed the group of Aurors.

He pondered what had changed their mood so significantly.

"Mr. Potter." A sharp rap sounded outside his open door.

Harry offered the wall he was facing an exasperated frown before he carefully set his expression to one of relaxed contentment. He placed his palms against his desk and pushed himself away from the piece of furniture. The wheels on his office chair swiveled around abruptly and faced the trio at his door.

Somehow, he was unsurprised to see Riddle, Kingsley, and Sirius standing outside his office. It wasn't a surprise, but it _certainly_ wasn't welcome. Judging from Sirius' uncomfortable vibes thrumming across the room, Harry gathered they were here to question him.

Which meant they were on the right path hunting _Custos._

Clearly, they had no idea that Harry was _Custos,_ _o_ therwise, they would be approaching him with far more force. This was a simple and informal interrogation. Harry just had to find out how they got on their current track before diverting them in the opposite direction.

"'ello," Harry murmured, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. "Please, come in."

His office was informal, as was the whole Department. Quidditch posters hung on his walls and miniature models of Quidditch fields lined his desk and filing cabinets. A small, golden snitch buzzed around his office, spelled to remain within his territory and not venture outside the room.

Ron got a kick out of his office, but Harry thought it was rather juvenile. Perhaps, his old self would have liked the décor just as much as Ron did, which is why Harry decided to decorate it this way. It was better to give his friends a false sense of security, thinking everything was back to normal. But things would never be back to normal.

Never.

"I would offer you a chair, gentlemen," he began, intentionally sounding flustered and awkward as he motioned toward the two beanbags that were shaped to look like Quaffles. "But I suppose you wouldn't enjoy the seating arrangements…"

Sirius plopped down on the beanbag and sulked. Harry sensed the obvious animosity directed toward Riddle from _both_ Kingsley and Sirius. The perfectly adapt politician was actually causing a rift between himself and the Law Enforcement Department? Interesting. And curious.

His green eyes slyly looked toward the Minister, watching the man as he inspected the photographs. The displayed photographs were just a front, consisting of two-dimensional normalcy with his usual 'crowd'. The usual crowd always involved Hermione, Ginny, and Ron—on occasion—Sirius. Let the man search for clues. Nothing in this office reflected Harry's true inner self. The pictures, the Quidditch mania… everything was placed strategically just to make him non-conspicuous.

It was always about blending in.

"I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Potter," Kingsley began after shooting a bemused glance at a silent Riddle. Harry could feel the man's perplexity at Riddle's continued silence. The man in question kept his hands clasped behind his back as he continued to assess Harry's office.

"No problem at all," Harry replied friendly, waving off Kingsley's apology. "I'm not exactly busy at the moment."

Kingsley smiled and bowed his neck in a gesture of gratitude. "I only have a few questions for you, Mr. Potter," the dark-skinned wizard continued. "It's regarding your friend, Ms. Granger." After a small nod from Harry, Kingsley proceeded. "Does she ever speak to you about the clients she represents? Or the cases that she performs?"

 _Ah_. This was all too amusing!

Harry's upper lip twitched and twitched again. He pressed his mouth together and clenched his twitching fingers. _Now_ wasn't a time for a breakdown _either_. Harry smiled grimly and rolled his head up to the ceiling. "Ah, of course," he admitted with humor. He controlled his racing pulse and kept from laughing, although, he did let out a chuckle. "She talks to me all the time about that _stuff_."

Riddle snapped his head around and stared blatantly at Harry.

Kingsley was the one to question him further. "Could you expand, Mr. Potter?"

Behind the Head Auror, Sirius sat, rolling his eyes.

Harry offered his godfather a tight smile. "Well," he hesitated, making a show of shifting around and crossing his legs. "I love Hermione, I really do. And I do support her in everything she does. But sometimes…" he grimaced. "Sometimes I can't make ends meet when she begins her tirades." Harry clasped his hands over his knees and leaned forward, noticing Riddle had turned back to observe the posters. "At any rate, I don't make much sense of the whole legal system. I was never a fan of learning the terminology."

He shared a knowing look with Sirius. They both knew how much Harry hated the legal system.

Pressing his back in his chair, Harry pondered the situation. The Auror Investigators finally identified the connection between his victims and the prosecutor acting against them. Yes it was true. Harry started targeting his victims based on Hermione's cases. It was common knowledge the pure-bloods ran the legal system in the Wizarding World. Them and _politicians_. Despite Britain being open to equality, discrimination still transpired.

When Hermione brought a case against a powerful politician or a pure-blood, the outcome was already decided. Harry, seeing the opportunity for real justice, had begun to strike the party standing opposite of Hermione.

Admittedly, it had been a foolish mistake. Though, not only did Harry have the intelligence to manipulate the attention away from him, but his last two victims had absolutely no tie with Hermione. In fact, if they looked more closely, they would find another Muggle-born attorney had been prepared to represent the opposition to Harry's victims.

The best thing to do was to act his part. While Sirius and Ron felt a strong sense of pity for Hermione's misfortune, they tended to complain about her long-winded legal terms and lectures. Harry would simply act like them, despite the fact that he hung on to her every word.

Suddenly, he sat up, startling Kingsley and Riddle.

"I…" Harry trailed off, frowning. "She doesn't disclose the privacy of her clients, or anything confidential about that type of stuff. She's not in trouble, is she? Honestly, Hermione would never break the rules and that includes the privacy of her—"

As predicted, Kingsley held up a hand. Amusement bubbled from the man and Harry thought it was a breath of fresh air. It was tiring experiencing— _tasting—_ those dark and grimy emotions all the time. Now a days, it was increasingly hard to surround himself with pure souls that omitted equally pure emotions.

"Mr. Potter." Kingsley chuckled. "That is not why we're here. Ms. Granger is in no trouble, I reassure you." The Head Auror cleared his throat. "Getting back to the subject at hand—"

"I find this pointless, Auror Shacklebolt," Riddle finally spoke up, drawling. The man strutted into the middle of the office, taking another critical look around him. "He doesn't have what we're looking for, much like his godfather. He is in no position to accomplish such a feat."

The Minister then picked up a picture frame, studying it for a period of time, before placing it back down.

Harry stared at the crooked picture frame. His upper lip twitched when he noticed its improper place. Everything he owned was placed meticulously. There was never anything out of place, ever. To an untrained eye, Harry's office would appear messy and disorderly. But that had been Harry's intention. To an accomplished eye, however, they would notice every single piece of paper was in organized chaos.

Schooling his features, Harry noticed Riddle watching his reaction through the frame's reflection. The man's dark eyes were trained on Harry's face as he intentionally placed the framed photo in the wrong position.

Harry sniffed, pushing his glasses further upon his nose and turning back to Kingsley. Everything needed to be in order, but his obsessive compulsion disorder wasn't severe. He wouldn't throw a fit for Riddle's amusement.

"Right then." Kingsley bowed once again. "If we're finished here, then enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Potter."

Sirius scrambled up from his position and mouthed 'lunch' before following his boss out the door. Riddle smiled thinly at Harry before nodding in farewell.

The Potter heir watched them go, frowning. Judging from Kingsley and Sirius' submission, it was clear that Riddle had taken complete control over the investigation. Typical. Throw in an alpha male with meager men and the alpha comes out on top, all the while, gaining the strength of the others. Kingsley was a strong and commanding man on his own. It was a surprise at how quickly he tucked his tail between his legs and followed Riddle.

If Harry didn't have appearances to worry about, he would be happy to put Riddle in his place. He was just _itching_ to knock Riddle on his arse.

He was also itching to straighten that picture frame.

Green eyes stared at the crooked frame, feeling his body twitch in that direction. No. Not yet. He would have to wait a few more hours until he gave in to that temptation. He didn't know if Riddle would be back at his office to see if Harry had an obsessive disorder. Because even Harry knew that obsessive compulsion disorders were a common trait among serial killers.

Speaking of which…

He turned suddenly, taken aback when he saw Riddle leaning elegantly against the side of his door. The Minister stared calmly at the picture frame before turning to look at Harry. A cold smile crossed the man's features and Harry felt the urge to match it with one of his own.

 _You have no proof. Of_ _anything_. He mentally challenged Riddle in his mind. He didn't know if the Minister actually had his suspicions that Harry was _Custos_ or if he was just eager to make Harry feel like a fool. No matter what the man's motives were, Harry wouldn't underestimate the Minister.

"Yes, Minister?" Harry pressed softly. "Was there something else you wanted?"

Riddle smiled, running a careful hand through his hair in order to keep it parted to the side. He ran a cool eye over Harry's relaxed and aloof form. "Coffee," the man announced silkily. "With you."

The tips of Harry's ears turned an intense red. Honestly, he didn't know if it was out of embarrassment or anger at the sheer _audacity_ of the arrogant wizard. The way the man demanded it was so accomplished, so smooth. Harry wondered if the man stood in front of the mirror each morning and perfected his seduction skills.

"I'm flattered," Harry drawled. "But you're really not my type, Minister."

For a moment, the true Riddle and the true Harry assessed one another before each wizard snapped back their guises.

Riddle chuckled merrily, losing his intensity. He patted a hand over his chest, winking at Harry. "Dear boy, don't give an old man a heart attack. I was merely offering to get you that coffee I made you spill earlier this morning. For lunch, perhaps?"

"Oh, you didn't _make_ me spill it, you accidently bumped into me. I won't hold you accountable to your own clumsiness, Minister." Harry flashed the man a bright smile. Judging from the tension around the man's smile, Riddle was smart enough to catch the sugar-coated insult.

Good. The man wasn't the only one who had the ability to make others squirm.

Harry relaxed in his chair, his posture screaming arrogance and dominance. With his legs spread sturdily on the ground, he leaned back and placed his arms behind his head. Even if Riddle was the one standing, Harry was the one who held the power in the room.

"Besides," Harry continued airily, intending for the man's torture to continue. "I'm not a coffee drinker. That coffee was for Sirius."

Riddle surprised him by taking an advancing step forward. The man stopped inches from Harry's knees and stared down his nose at his sitting form. Harry kept his body motionless, suddenly feeling… belittled.

"Tea, then. I am a man of my word, Mr. Potter. It was your money lost this morning and I will be happy to repay you."

"I don't drink tea either, Minister," Harry replied sweetly. Of course he drank tea, _everyone_ drank tea. But he wanted to see the man _squirm_.

Riddle lost his smile and grinned forcibly down at Harry. "Water. Everyone drinks water, Mr. Potter."

"Indeed. Though, technically, water is free. So you wouldn't be paying me back for the coffee I spilt." Harry straightened abruptly at the dangerous gleam in the man's eye. "I'm only joking, sir." He chuckled easily and turned his shoulder on the Minister. "Thank you, though, for the invitation. But I'm meeting Sirius for lunch today. Perhaps another time?"

Refusing to be dismissed so easily, Riddle pressed his back against Harry's desk and tapped his fingers on the parchments in front of the younger wizard. "I get the premonition that you harbor ill feelings towards me, Mr. Potter."

Harry grunted. He always held ill feelings toward politicians, especially arrogant ones who dismissed people as if they were beneath them. But now he had Riddle's attention; either because the man wanted to get closer to Hermione or because Riddle was suspicious of _him_. Harry realized that his little exchange with Riddle was only raising the man's suspicions. He was a fool for giving in to his instincts and challenging the man so quickly.

Though, there was a small part of Harry that wanted the man to know what he was. It would make everything a bit more exciting, especially when the man would never be able to prove Harry's guilt.

No!

This wasn't a game! Fool he was for thinking that. This was about innocents who were wronged and could never get their justice. This was about destroying those whose soul was so dirty, he could hardly stand upright in the face of it. People like that didn't deserve to be living. They didn't.

Harry's shoulders slumped and he lost his playfulness. It was not a good idea to play with Riddle. "I apologize for coming across that way, Mr. Riddle." He swiveled his chair to face the man. "I just find it suspicious that you want to talk to me further. Whatever you have against Hermione, I won't help you. She's a good friend and I'm rather protective of them when it comes to their wellbeing."

There. He made an excuse for his earlier behavior. Outwardly, he was just a good friend, protecting Hermione. He felt 'threatened' by Riddle and, in turn, he had turned defensive on her behalf. Hopefully Riddle would accept his excuse. Judging from the man's creasing eyebrows, Harry believed he had succeeded, if only a little.

"It's understandable, Mr. Potter." Riddle smiled and pushed off from the desk. "Let me know when your schedule opens up. I'd still like to buy you tea." The man looked pointedly toward the inventory of black tea Harry kept stacked in the far corner of his office.

Harry chuckled, giving the man a cool wave. "Certainly, sir. Have a good day."

Riddle grinned and left the office.

Green eyes narrowed at the far wall.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Sirius wasn't at their usual spot when lunchtime rolled around. Harry had waited for over ten minutes, yet his godfather had yet to show. It was a waste of his time sitting here, especially when the company around him wasn't particularly inviting.

Opting to go back to his work rather than wait any longer, Harry stood but paused as a lavender paper plane flew toward him. With a resigned sigh, Harry snatched it from the air and opened the piece of paper.

_Harry,_

_Got held back at the office. Sorry for the late notice—we'll meet tomorrow for lunch._

_Sirius_

Trying his best to muffle his frustration, Harry curled the piece of paper in his fist. He wanted to talk to his godfather about the _Custos_ case and Hermione's informal interrogation. The Auror Department couldn't have gotten any new leads, so why was Sirius being held back for lunch?

As he glanced up from the crumpled note, he came face to face with Tom Riddle. The smugness the man exuded was answer enough as to why Sirius was staying back.

 _Oh…_ but the man was _good_!

"Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Potter," Riddle began innocently. The Minister placed his lunch on the table between them, seemingly oblivious to the prying spectators around him. "I was hoping…" the man trailed off, sipping once at his tea, "that I would run into you doubtless of your lunch date with your godfather. Imagine my surprise to see you sitting by your lonesome." He flashed a wide smile. "I got your tea. I know you fancy black."

Harry bowed his head, staring at the presented cup of tea. No matter what Riddle knew or what he didn't know, Harry knew he had to interact with the Minister carefully. He couldn't underestimate the man and he couldn't _play_ word or mind games. Honestly, it had been fun interacting with a man like Riddle earlier in his office, but Harry had to remind himself that he and Riddle were on other sides of the law.

He had Riddle's interest now. The best thing was to put distance between each other and turn the man's interest away.

"Actually, I was just going—"

"Sit."

Harry grimaced as he submissively followed the order and clumsily sat. Tugging the cup of tea closer, Harry wondered if he would lose his temper before Riddle lost his interest. Following the man's orders would bring Harry's resolve at the edge.

He adjusted his thick-framed glasses, embracing his 'Harry Potter' role. Divert Riddle's attention and bore the man senseless. "I'm sorry," he blurted out, beginning his ruse and slumping his upper body toward the table in misery. "For earlier."

Riddle paused in spreading his dressing over his baked potato and gazed at Harry from over his glasses. "For what?" he inquired.

Harry's lips twitched uncontrollably and he raised his teacup to hide the tremors. It would seem that his tics grew far more uncontrollable in Riddle's presence. "I was a right bastard to you," he admitted weakly, inwardly, cringing in horror at his meek tone. "You just have to understand that I take the protection of my friends very seriously."

"Yes," Riddle acknowledged, pausing before looking back down at his baked potato. "You mentioned that in your office already, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," he corrected with an air of sickly good nature.

Riddle's knuckles turned white from tightening his grip on his fork. He did a decent job veiling his expression, but Harry knew he was confusing the hell out of the man. Riddle wanted to see Harry as a threat, but Harry was giving the man doubts.

"I beg your pardon?" Riddle murmured in question.

"H-Harry, it's my name," he responded, ducking his head and tearing a large bite from his sandwich. "Everyone calls me Harry," he explained, a large chunk of food in his mouth. "If you wanted to talk more about 'Mione, you might as well address me by my first name." He kept his eyes downcast, grinning into his sandwich. "But…" he chewed his food, frowning at the table in mock concentration. "I don't know how much more you want me to tell you. Hermione's line of work isn't exactly easy to follow with a—"

"You have remarkable table etiquette, Mr. Potter," Riddle cut him off silkily. "It's truly… riveting to watch."

Harry took a large sip from his tea to wash down the food in his mouth. He cast a bashful glance in Riddle's direction. Acting this way was so second nature to Harry that it wasn't difficult to make it seem natural. Though, he had to remember not to go overboard least Riddle become suspicious.

"Sorry, sir," Harry apologized.

"Indeed." Riddle gazed at him, his eyes cruelly suspicious.

Harry paid it no heed as he gazed down at his lunch. It was odd, not being able to sense Riddle like everyone else he encountered. The man was an empty void, discerning Harry yet setting him at ease. Sometimes, the emotions of others grew almost impossible at times. With Riddle, Harry felt as if he were doused with a calm silence, giving his weary senses a much-needed rest.

Still, he was conscious of the man's suspicions. Harry wasn't surprised. Riddle, so determined to have Harry as his suspect, would take anything that proved otherwise as deceit or trickery. The Minister would believe this was a rouse. And while it was, Harry was determined to make Riddle think this was the real him. His friends would vouch for him, Sirius would vouch for him, and even his old classmates would remember Harry as being a bit awkward and carefree.

"At any rate," Riddle announced, dropping his fork. "I didn't want to meet with you to discuss Miss Granger."

"Oh?"

"No." He shook his head. "I came here to talk about you."

Harry didn't miss a beat. "Sure," he grinned in response. "But you won't find me particularly interesting."

Brown eyes surveyed Harry and a smirk lifted the man's aristocratic mouth. "On the contrary," he purred, "I find you very interesting."

It was impossible. Harry clutched his sandwich, his tense fingers indenting the bread. He had interacted with Riddle a total of five minutes before their lunch date, if that. There was no way a man, even a mastermind, could possibly see through Harry. Granted, he had slipped only a few seconds at his office, but he had given a reasonable excuse that he had felt protective over Hermione. Anyone would understand that pretext.

So if Riddle was so smart, so clever, that he could see through Harry, then what kind of man did that make Riddle?

Green eyes assessed Riddle, finally on edge and finally realizing Riddle was not a normal politician. Yes the man knew how to work people, he knew how to pull strings, but there _was_ something more to this man. And whatever it was, Harry knew it had to be dangerous.

If he could somehow feel, somehow taste Riddle and his emotions, would he encounter another prey? Instead of petty political manipulations and political deceptions, would Harry find proof of something much worse?

He only had eight victims so far, nine targets. But he was confident in his abilities of being a successful hunter and savior. Harry wondered if he would be up to the task of hunting someone as high-risk as the Minister. It would be a challenge, but if there was incriminating evidence that suggested Riddle was more dangerous than he let on, Harry was up for the task.

Amusing. They were both hunting each other, both scoping out the other's invisible limits and boundaries.

Could Harry manifest a front for Riddle while hunting the man at the same time?

The answer came to him quickly, reminding him of the importance of logical thinking and the reason _Custos_ existed. _No_. Other innocents out there needed help. Though tempting, Minister Riddle would need to remain untouched.

"Ask away," Harry invited, lowering his sandwich.

"Sirius Black indicated you were quite good at Quidditch but quit because of an injury." Riddle discarded his meal in favor of leaning closer to Harry. "I've noticed you shuffle and take uneven steps as if your leg bothered you. I assumed you injured your leg, but you don't need to use your legs to fly, Mr. Potter."

Harry raised an eyebrow from behind his glasses. "Are you saying I'm intentionally faking it, Minister?" He offered a grin for good measure. "Good guess on the leg injury, but it was my spine that took the beating. I find it hard to sit for very long, especially on a broom. The discomfort travels to my step, I suppose."

_I dare you to try to understand the real reason I stopped playing Quidditch._

Brown eyes dilated and Riddle placed a curled fist underneath his chin. "Of course I'm not suggesting that you're faking it, Mr. Potter. I'm merely curious. After all, what reason would someone have for parading around as someone they're not?"

Harry pressed his lips together. The chatter across the cafeteria seemed to disappear completely from his senses as he focused on the wizard across from him. Riddle meant to probe Harry with a gentle, almost inconspicuous jab. Instead, it only caused Harry a deep and true sadness.

"A very good question, Minister. Faking an injury aside, there are countless of men and women who parade around as if they're someone they're not." His eyes drifted toward the table directly to his right.

During his time waiting for Sirius to arrive, he had already pinpointed a couple that had an invisible wedge between them. A man and a woman sat together, the bands on their left fingers an indication that they were married. But every time she smiled at him or laid a loving hand on his arm, his whole being _stank_ of guilt. He was most likely cheating on her, yet he continued his charade, too afraid of losing the women he betrayed.

Everyone had their own guise; he could feel the contradictory feelings to prove it. The ability to experience emotions was born into Harry since his birth, but his ability had only intensified since the incident. Instead of having the emotions of others consume him, Harry had learned how to turn down the intensity. Now he only received an occasional rush and a taste in his mouth that he had learned to distinguish between different emotions.

Not to mention he was able to manipulate emotions just as well. It was a treasured gift. He especially enjoyed making his victims feel what their own victims had felt at their hands. Such sweet and poetic justice.

Harry turned his eyes back on Riddle and placed a hand against side his cheek in a lazy manner. "You should know better than anyone, sir. You're a politician, aren't you? You're surrounded by men and women who put on a guise—yourself included."

Riddle blinked and offered a coy smile. "Touché. You are most certainly correct in your assumptions, especially about politicians, I'm afraid." He chuckled lowly but sobered immediately after. "Such insight, Mr. Potter."

It was Harry's turn to offer the wizard a coy grin. He shrugged, spreading his hands in a guilty manner. "My friends claim I'm candid and open. I'm never one for politics, no offense sir."

The Minister smiled and bowed his head. Shadows crossed along his face, bathing him in an ominous light. "Getting back to the subject at hand," Riddle whispered lowly, his expression completely blank and unreadable. It was certainly different from his Minister persona. "Your decision to stop playing Quidditch was due to an injury. How long did you play before you sustained an injury?"

"A few months, unfortunately," Harry replied, shrugging. He pondered at the man's direction and received his answer just as a sick and cold weight dropped in his stomach.

"Your godfather claimed you played right out of Hogwarts, so I imagine were around eighteen when you withdrew from the team," Riddle mused aloud, picking up his fork. "Two years ago." He repeated. "If I remember correctly, James and Lily Potter died two years ago." From the corner of his eye, he peaked at Harry like that of a smug serpent.

Harry applauded himself for keeping a blasé expression. Inside, he was wailing at the top of his lungs in both anger and misery.

"Yeah," he replied with the perfect balance of remorse and regret. "I guess you could say they were one of the reasons why I quit."He would have to give Riddle credit, however much of a bastard-move it was. "After their deaths, I wasn't focusing much on the game. I sustained my injury at that time. It was treatable, of course, but I chose to use it as an excuse not to play."

Underneath the table, his fingers twitched uncontrollably and patted his thigh in an erratic pattern. Glancing down in perfect melancholy, he spied Riddle's deflating smirk and the stiffening shoulders. Harry had the man fooled, he knew. After all, Riddle was also a player in the game of charades. Knowing how arrogant Riddle was, Harry assumed the man would refuse to believe someone could be better at guises.

Harry could send waves of conviction toward the man, but he wouldn't chance it. If he couldn't sense Riddle, he had no reassurance that his emotional manipulation worked. Worse, he may somehow detect Harry's touch.

"I could never really part with Quidditch, no matter how much it reminded me of my father. So, I choose to apply for a position at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Sometimes—"

"Miss Granger mentioned you were skilled at Defense Against the Dark Arts," Riddle interrupted. He was grasping at straws, drawing on anything that would give Harry credibility as _Custos_. "Why didn't you join the Auror Department? Like your father?"

It was difficult to keep from snickering.

He had the man puzzled, exactly where he wanted him. How satisfying it was… to draw Riddle by the string and encircle him with doubt. It was obvious that the Aurors believed _Custos_ to have a position of power, to be arrogant and god-like. While Harry supposed a few traits did apply to him, he also knew that it was _expected._

He wasn't stupid enough to walk the halls of the Ministry, flaunting the personality that fit the profile of their serial killer.

It helped matters that he had always been like this, this carefree and good-natured person. After his parents' murder, he had altered for the worse; he had lost his naivety in a world full of evil. For the sake of his friends and godfather, Harry continued reassuring them that things had not changed, that he was slowly getting over what had happened.

He supposed, in a way, he truly did love his friends and family. Otherwise, he wouldn't have thought to keep up a charade. He didn't want to hurt them; he didn't want to lose them.

"My injury, of course," Harry replied slowly. "I wouldn't make a good field Auror with my gait."

"You said it was treatable," Riddle insisted heatedly, leaning forward and finally showing his teeth.

"Oh, it _was_ treatable," Harry reassured calmly, the polar opposite of Riddle. "But I didn't get it healed in time. It affected the alignment of my spine permanently. I'm sure they can perform intensive surgery with just as exhaustive therapy, but I don't have time for that."

Actually, he had his injury treated a several months ago.

The pain afterward had been excruciating, but he had pushed past it and continued to give the impression he still had a slight limp. A serial killer who relied on physical force wouldn't have a spinal injury. If Riddle wanted to, he could look up Harry's medical file and see no record of corrective surgery.

Doctors without licenses would gladly perform surgery with shady circumstances— all for a large sum of gold.

Riddle suddenly stood, his face pinched and his knuckles curled. Doubtless, the Minister wore a smile and it somehow chilled Harry senseless. "Thank you for humoring me with a lunch date, Mr. Potter. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day." He didn't even wait for Harry's response.

With a dramatic turn of his heel, the Minister left the cafeteria, nodding kindly toward those who waved in greeting.

Harry slumped against the table, looking down and smiling thinly. Riddle's arrogance was his downfall; no one could outsmart Riddle, no one was better than Riddle, no one could manipulate Riddle.

 _But Harry could_.

He wouldn't fool himself, though. Now that the spotlight had touched him, albeit briefly, he needed to remain extra cautious. Riddle may still be determined to prove his assumptions correct and identify Harry as _Custos_.

He needed to find someone that would attract Riddle's obsession. Surely there were better wizards out there that didn't have spinal injuries. Preferably someone who assumed a position of power during the day, like a lawyer with connections to Hermione Granger. Someone who was ridiculously suave and arrogant. Someone who could be _Custos_ in the eye of the Aurors.

And he knew just the wizard Riddle could play with next.

Cormac McLaggen.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

" _McLaggen_?!"

Harry paused in midsentence, intentionally allowing the redhead to stew at the mention of Cormac.

They were at Harry's flat, sitting at the breakfast nook that currently served as their makeshift bar. It wasn't rare to see Ron at his house, but it was rare to see _just_ Ron. Hermione was busy working on a new case and Ginny had opted to give her brother and Harry some 'guy-time', as she liked to call it.

It hadn't been planned, this night with Ron. After all, it was Thursday and the redhead hardly made a habit of drinking his weight in booze the night before a workday. Ron had called in ill today and decided to stop by Harry's flat that night. Considering the excessive talking and the excessive drinking, Harry assumed Ron was feeling better. He wondered if the boy would call in _sick_ again tomorrow, only this time, he would actually have a valid reason to stay in bed.

Harry had hesitated in letting Ron into his home that night.

While he cared for the redhead, he wasn't particularly fond of sharing his evenings every night of the week. The guise he used during the day tended to weigh more heavily on him toward the evenings. He usually reserved Friday and Saturday nights for any potential social gatherings, the rest of the time, however, he was free to dwell in his own pathetic company.

Nonetheless, Ron's absence at the Ministry today was the reason Harry agreed to this _guy time._ How could he deny Ron's self-invitation when he could plant seeds in both Ron's and Riddle's heads?

It was the perfect opportunity.

Because Ron wasn't at the Ministry today, he'd missed Riddle's sly interrogation. There was a high possibility that Riddle would approach Ron tomorrow. Until that time, Harry would indirectly prep Ron for the interrogation, orchestrating what the redhead would deliver to Riddle.

Unfortunately, there was the chance that Ron was so far gone in his alcohol haze that he wouldn't remember Harry's spoon-fed words. Though, even if Ron somehow managed to drown a whole bottle of firewhiskey, he would still remember a conversation about Cormac McLaggen and Hermione Granger.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, she couldn't meet for lunch because she had a meeting with McLaggen. Anyway—"

"That _slug_ ," Ron interrupted again. His long hair fell in his sour face as he scowled at the space above Harry's head. "She has lunch with him? Bloody hell, how can she keep an appetite while looking at that bloke? He's a slimy git, that's what."

Harry tapped his fingers on his glass tumbler, allowing the redhead's bemoaning. Hermione would be furious if she knew Harry had divulged that bit of information to Ron. Even if Ron did confront Hermione about it, Harry always had the cover of having too much to drink and a loose tongue.

Ron was too cloudy to realize Harry hadn't even touched his whiskey.

"As I was saying," Harry started again, reassured that Ron would remember the mention of McLaggen by tomorrow morning. "Riddle began interrogating me during lunch, asking me about Hermione's line of work."

Ron snorted, shaking his head. "Like you really understand any of that stuff…"

"Exactly," Harry agreed, offering the boy a toothy grin. "It completely slipped my mind to mention McLaggen. I mean, McLaggen is always hovering around 'Mione. Obviously, if she talks to anyone about her case work, he would be the one to understand most of it."

The redhead nodded, silent, as he comprehended the words. "What do you think they're investigating? Do you reckon it's about _Custos?_ No matter what it is, I know that git had something to do with it. Those two are always together; I just don't know why they aren't a couple…"

Ron trailed off pitifully.

Harry pressed his lips together to keep from scowling. Ron had fancied Hermione since Fifth Year and Hermione had fancied Ron since… well, he really couldn't say. Harry noticed their emotions begin to change for each other; the two didn't even have to confide in him. Neither of the two had mustered up the courage to confess their true feelings.

It was horribly pathetic, and that's why Harry didn't bother getting in the middle of it.

Perhaps one of these days he could end his suffering by manipulating Ron's emotions and giving him enough courage to approach Hermione. It would certainly give him more time for himself.

"I don't want to go to work tomorrow," Ron complained suddenly, tipping back his glass and drowning the rest of his whiskey in one go. "I don't know why you won't join the Aurors with me, Harry. Training is a pain in the arse. It would be nice to have my mate there with me."

"Continue to skip and you'll be done with training sooner than you think," Harry responded dryly.

Now wasn't the time to reassure Ron or try to give him any advice. He knew the redhead had no real interest in being an Auror. He could _feel_ true dread coming from Ron about the prospect of going back to work. The boy was doing what he thought was expected of him, something that would set him apart from his brothers.

_Life is far too short, Ron, to live up to not only your own expectations, but others' expectations as well._

Times like these proved just how far Harry was from normalcy. What he wouldn't give to sit back, relax, and complain about work. Instead, he felt guilty sitting here with a tumbler of untouched whiskey when there were people out _there_ that needed help, his help. They could be crying and no one would feel their desperation.

Harry tapped his fingers in disarray across the table, subconsciously drawing Ron's attention.

"How did your counseling go?" Suddenly, it was if Ron hadn't consumed a single drop of liquor. His face turned solemn and serious as he peered at Harry blearily. "It was today, wasn't it? Aren't you down to twice a month?"

"You're not the only one who is allowed to play hooky, Ron," Harry snapped, standing.

A dark emotion warmed his belly, the same sensation one would get after a few sips of whiskey.

His trembling fingers intentionally knocked over his tumbler of firewhiskey, hating the amber liquid more than ever for not being able to pacify him, for not being able to give him a moment's peace. He knew, once he began to drink, he would have no control, and when he had no control, the memories would come back with startling clarity.

" _Oh god! Harry! Please! Please no! Not my baby!"_

Harry pressed his eyes closed, his throat contracting in an attempt to stop the miserable whine that swelled in his chest. His mother's hoarse and shrill cry resonated across his mind and into his ears. It was if she were standing there again, begging for a moment of relief and mercy.

Back then, her emotions had choked him and rendered him insane with anguish during those days of torture. Now that it was over, Lily and James' emotions haunted him more than their spirits, bringing him back to those days more effectively than a simple memory.

Turning away from the table, Harry shakily stood by the sink and turned on the facet. Ron knew to remain silent, allowing Harry a moment to gather himself.

Harry did nothing to break the silence, hating himself for allowing the past memories to control him and his actions. He was better than this. It had been two years, and yet, he was still too sensitive about what had happened. He was already fucked up, why must the memories continue haunting him with such precision?

"I'm sorry," Ron stuttered quietly. "I shouldn't have asked."

Harry stared out the window as he held his whiskey-stained hands underneath the scalding water. The reflection that stared back at him was gaunt and grey, reflecting the true inner state of his broken soul.

Contorting his expression into one of sheepish guilt, he glanced back at Ron. "No, it's alright, Ron. I feel a bit silly for skipping the counseling session. I've been doing better, too." He sent the redhead a sloppy and half-attempt at a grin. "I guess it's just harder some days."

Ron shrugged, patting his fingers on top of his glass in attempt to ease his unease. "You don't have to convince me, Harry. If you don't want to go, you shouldn't have to go."

Right, that was Sirius and Hermione. They alone convinced Harry to seek counseling. Though _convince_ was a very mild term for what they had accomplished.

He didn't need counseling. It was just another act; another role he had to master and play.

He had his own therapy through hunting down and killing those who destroyed the lives of the innocent. Each kill bathed him in a sense of calm, it was extremely therapeutic for him and Harry knew he would never feel remorse for what he did. Not only were the killings in his benefit, but he also saved helpless children, men, and women.

Why sit back and let the legal system spend worthless time for the chance of _maybe_ locking up the perpetrator? Why wait when Harry could take care of the scum at the opportune time?

"I'm doing better, I'll do better," Harry repeated numbly.

"Harry, I never—"

Before Ron could finish, the fireplace ignited with green flames and two forms gracefully stepped into his living room. He cast the two women a glance before turning and occupying himself with washing his hands. His movements were precise as he scrubbed every inch of flesh from his wrist down. Paying special attention to the area between his fingers, Harry rubbed his skin raw, the motions calming his wired nerves.

"Hey you two," Ginny greeted, Hermione at her heels. "I've come to bring you home, Ron. Merlin knows you'd probably splinch yourself if you try to Apparate, or land in Malfoy Manor if you Floo."

Her smug expression faltered as she eyed the spilt whiskey. She then zeroed in on Harry furiously scrubbing his hands and deflated noticeably. Behind her, Hermione sighed softly.

In the back of his mind, he was aware of Ginny helping Ron to his feet and escaping the kitchen. Only when the water turned off did Harry snap from his tranquil haze, noticing he was alone with Hermione.

"What set you off this time, Harry?" she asked quietly, taking his crimson hands and gently patting them with a towel.

His mind sharpened and he pulled his hands from her, self-loathing tearing him apart once again. It was extremely rare, these failures, but they happened occasional when he was feeling particularly empty and helpless.

"The usual," he replied bitingly, moving past her and cleaning up the table with the towel. Shame bubbled through him. If only Riddle could see him now. The Minister would laugh and claim Harry an easy and unworthy target.

"You're a wizard," Hermione chastised as she watched Harry pat the spilt whiskey. She waved her wand, cleaning up the mess within seconds. Her eyes were a bit delirious and her tone a little too high in pitch. "Have you forgotten that, Harry? People will start to suspect that you…"

Harry listened as the fireplace flared up, taking Ron and Ginny away from his flat.

"People will suspect what, Hermione?" Harry whispered, turning to eye her sharply.

Out of all the others, his relationship had altered the most with Hermione. She was _so_ incredibly intelligent and she knew him better than all the others. In a way, he felt as if he were insulting her intelligence and loyalty by keeping a charade in her presence.

Her face softened when she spied his cold countenance, fear rippling through the air before it calmed into stubborn defiance. "That you're _Custos,_ the serial killer who seems to forget he's a wizard and kills his victims the Muggle way." She crossed her arms over her chest, assessing Harry critically. "You need to stop this, Harry. Please. You can't continue this. They're getting closer now."

It was the first time Hermione had the courage to address the heavy issue between them. Harry wasn't stupid, he knew the moment Hermione put the pieces together. He just hadn't believed she would ever truly come to terms with it or admit it aloud in front of him.

He expected that he would feel shame if one of his closest friends confronted him about the killings. He imagined he would stand motionless as they expressed their disappointment, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed in humiliation. Frighteningly enough, he felt nothing but cool nonchalance and a small smidgen of self-preservation.

The latter emotion took him off-guard. Harry wanted nothing more than to keep his friends safe and happy, but he also _needed_ them to stay oblivious. If Hermione threatened his freedom, his therapy, Harry needed to make a difficult decision.

Luckily, he knew Hermione well enough to know the girl wouldn't go to the authorities. At least not yet.

"You know that's impossible," Harry responded calmly, putting a stopper on the firewhiskey and breezing past her immobile form. "You know I won't stop."

"You're so different," Hermione suddenly exclaimed after a moment of silence. She turned around, watching Harry tinkering around in the cabinets without a care in the world. "Underneath it all, you're like a completely different person, someone I can't possibly know or understand. How can you deceive us like this? How can you make us believe that you're the same person when you're not? Are you using us—?"

"I'm doing this because I _love_ you. All of you." Harry snapped his head around, eyeing her vulnerable form. "Do you think Ron or Sirius would appreciate this new me? That something they could never understand turned me into _this_ new person? By giving them a false sense of security, I'm keeping them blissfully ignorant. They don't need to experience what I'm feeling, what I'm doing."

Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked at the ground, her eyebrows knitting with sorrow. "You're _killing_ people, Harry! How can you think this is acceptable, even after what you've gone through? You need help; you can't continue hiding this secret."

Harry smiled suddenly, a sardonic smile before calmly turning away from Hermione. For being so smart, Hermione was rather thick. "You think I'm killing _people_ , Hermione?" he asked lightly, casually as he closed the liquor cabinet. Stepping away from the counter, he slowly approached her, noticing her arms crossed defensively over her chest. "I'm killing _monsters_ , not people."

Tears refused to fall from her watery brown eyes. She kept face as he closed in on her. He had expected her to run, to back away, but she remained standing tall, the taste of her unease the only thing giving her true feelings away.

"They were bad people to do what they did, cruel people," Hermione agreed. "But is killing really the answer, Harry? How are you any better than them for committing such an act?"

It took Harry a long while to piece together what she had just asked. How was he any better? Did she truly ask that? Killing… killing… was an act of _mercy_ for what they truly deserved.

"Do you understand what it's like to be an Empath? Not only to feel and taste the grimy and slimy soul of the individuals, but to experience what their victims felt?" His neutral tone pitched low in a dangerous whisper. "Sure, you read about what happened, and you may even get the chance to see the victims confess their story and experience their tears and sorrow."

He stood directly in front of her, their bodies a hair's breadth away. His posture was confident and tall as he gave Hermione a good look at his true self. Eyes wide and unblinking, Hermione absorbed everything he had to offer. She wanted to know the person underneath and Harry had no qualms showing her.

He wasn't ashamed. He'd never be ashamed.

"But you've never _felt_ what they were feeling," Harry continued cruelly. "It's rare that I get to experience what they felt, as they're already dead before I could save them. But I'm sure you remember hearing about Albert Kinley and the two girls he _allegedly_ raped. They were alive after he finished with them and I encountered them after the attack."

"Harry…" Hermione warned, having an idea of where their discussion was heading.

He had no misgivings as he sent wave after wave of despair and torment in her direction. It wasn't hard to remember what those children experienced, how broken they felt after the rape. He remembered every emotion vividly; hopelessness, fright, pain, confusion… defeat.

Hermione's legs gave out and she collapsed to the ground, her hands clumsily bracing herself and preventing her head from connecting to the floor. Her face contorted in horror and fright as she absorbed the emotions Harry manipulated in her direction. Her eyes were wide, as if she were trying to identify the attacker causing her this pain.

But there was no attacker and she began sobbing hysterically.

Green eyes watched her in fascination, in slight glee. If only he could show them all this, then they would never question his motives, they would never see him as an enemy. One truly never understood another's pain unless they experienced it firsthand.

Reluctantly, Harry stopped feeding Hermione the emotions and watched her choke at his feet. "Imagine…" Harry whispered airily. "If this is what they felt like _after_ the attack, imagine what they must have felt during the rape. Those girls will _never_ be the same. And that monster walked free. But according to you, he didn't deserve to die. He was a _person._ "

Hermione pressed her palms against her face and continued to sob. He thought her continued grief was due to the after-effects of feeling such raw emotions, but he slowly began to realize her sadness was directed toward his person.

His smirk trembled before deepening into a frown.

"You've been through so much already, Harry. Someone needs to help you," Hermione cried. Feelings of disappointment and betrayal omitted from her and there was even a bit of disgust.

Harry stared at her, unable to believe it. Had she not felt it? Those girls were ruined forever because of a monster. And Hermione felt pity for _Harry_?

"You need help," she repeated, sniffing wetly and looking up at Harry. Black mascara smeared around her eyes and stained her cheeks in rivulets. "What did they do to you, Harry?"

A loud scream pierced his ears, the echo of Lily Potter's last moments crashing around him. He gave a roar, matching her scream in volume and startling Hermione at his feet. "No!" he growled. Taking an advancing step forward, he grabbed at her angrily, but she scrambled away before he could touch her. "Get out!" he yelled after her retreating form, furious at her lack of understanding and empathy for those children.

She cast one last look at him before exiting the flat. The door slammed with a resounding _thud_ and Harry locked the Floo Network before escaping toward his bedroom.

His thoughts were scattered and he had the overwhelming urge to hunt. He pushed the temptation aside, knowing he would make sloppy mistakes when he spent months of covering his tracks.

He entered the bedroom. Like his office at the Ministry, Quidditch posters hung on the walls and a disorderly bookshelf stood to the side with crooked picture frames placed articulately. Stepping past the unmade bed and the clothes placed strategically across the floor, Harry entered his closet. He pushed aside the clothes that hung according to color and pressed his palm against the exposed brick of his closet wall.

It trembled before moving aside, revealing an entrance to another room.

Harry entered the room quickly, closing the wall behind him. As soon as he stepped inside his true bedroom, he released a sigh of relief and slumped against the wall.

White embraced him and soothed his frazzled nerves. Nothing stood inside his bedroom but a white-framed bed with white sheets and a white nightstand standing beside it. The floors were white, the walls were white, and the ceiling was white. There was nothing else residing inside his white haven and he preferred it that way.

Well, almost nothing else.

His eyes jumped to his nightstand and the object on top of it. It was the only source of color in the entire room.

As if drawn to the item, Harry subconsciously made his way over to the bed, his eyes never leaving his source of comfort. He crawled on top the bed, resting his head against the ivory pillow to get a better viewing angle to the picture frame. His parents smiled back at him, their appearance unflawed from the horrors that awaited them.

Hermione thought he needed help. Even when faced with overwhelming evidence that the prey he hunted were not _people_ , she still didn't understand or agree with what he did. He was so certain that if she had felt what those girls had felt, she would sympathize and respect him for what he did.

Instead, she looked at him with pity, as if he were a wounded animal that needed proper care and handling.

A cruel voice wondered if she was right, if he really did need help.

Harry blinked before chuckling lowly. Of course he needed help. He slept in an artificially lit room, too afraid to fall asleep in the dark. But when it came to saving the lives of innocents, Harry knew he was doing the right thing. There were even members of the public that often sided with _Custos_ and applauded him for his actions.

Without Harry, those monsters would walk free, ruining the lives of other innocents.

And yet, no matter how fiercely he disagreed with Hermione, he still felt a twinge of uncertainty and sharp betrayal. Her reaction made him feel belittled, it made him question his morality and give him lingering doubts.

These new feelings didn't sit well with him, but his determination to save innocents offset the doubts Hermione ignited within him. She didn't understand what it was like to constantly be around men and women who walked away from their crimes.

_But it isn't just about saving those in need; it's about_ sating _your own desires, isn't it?_

Harry exhaled and forcibly pushed the question from his mind. Instead, he stared admiringly at his parents. It had been a difficult day with breakdowns and blunders.

Tomorrow, he would be better.

. . **Dreams** . .

Once Kingsley entered the Auror Department, he approached the man sitting in his office. He had just escaped a swarm of reporters who felt it necessary to bombard him with questions, the same questions each day. How close were they catching _Custos_? Did he consider _Custos_ a true killer? Would he be tried like all the other murderers?

They were silly questions and Kingsley hardly had time to repeat himself.

_Custos_ was getting more attention than he warranted. Granted the man was the first serial killer the Wizarding World had seen in decades, but Kingsley still thought _Custos_ was getting off on all the press.

"Find any leads?" he rumbled in question, eyeing Minister Riddle with a critical eye.

No matter if the Minister had reassured Kingsley that he had no ulterior motives regarding their current serial killer, he still decided to keep an exceptionally close eye on the man and his findings.

Riddle stared off into space and didn't seem inclined to acknowledge Kingsley's presence. The older wizard's face was drawn into an expression of weariness. "I believe Ron Weasley has supplied us with a new direction in regards to _Custos_."

Kingsley's eyebrows rose at the news. He knew the Weasley boy hadn't shown up for training yesterday and Riddle had to postpone his questioning for this morning. "Oh?" the tall wizard pushed off from the doorframe and slowly approached the desk. "And what did Mr. Weasley imply?"

Finally placing the bit of parchment on the desk, Riddle turned around and adjusted his thin-framed glasses. "A rather… brilliant quip about Cormac McLaggen being too close to Hermione Granger."

The black wizard grunted, trying to piece together what had turned the Minister sour. "McLaggen is a Half-blood lawyer," he began, trying to jog his memory of the young man in question. Suddenly, a weight dropped in his belly. "His uncle, Tiberius, is an important figurehead in the Wizengamot and is good friends with Rufus Scrimgeour." That did not bode well. Kingsley respected Scrimgeour, the old Head of the Auror Department.

Riddle watched him closely, blinking slowly and smiling just as gradually.

"This isn't good," Kingsley continued. "The boy's uncle, Tiberius, has been a member of the Wizengamot since before lawyers were used in court. Surely having a family as involved in the law as McLaggen's would count for something."

The Minister's continued silence slowly became deafening and that piercing stare was beginning to unsettle Kingsley. "Ronald Weasley may just be jealous of Granger and McLaggen's relationship." It was a half-hearted attempt to steer the suspicion away from McLaggen.

"Of course," Riddle conceded slyly. "And that is exactly how careful killers are caught, Shacklebolt. No matter how perfect they may be, there is always someone with a grudge against them."

Silence spread thick between the two wizards as they surveyed the other. Kingsley forced himself to take a deep breath before nodding. "You're right," he agreed, "I should look at this from another perspective." _One that does not have any ties to Rufus._ "If McLaggen and Granger are in a romantic relationship, or even if McLaggen fancies her, it would make sense that he would want to avenger her losses in court. He also has a position of power during the day, he has the connections, and he's rather smart considering his current occupation… he fits your profile of _Custos._ "

Riddle's smile was now predatory. "He fits the profile just _perfectly_ , no?" The tall wizard stood from the chair and took a step towards Kingsley. "You are improving, Auror Shacklebolt. If you remember to not let your personal feelings blind you, you may actually discover your hidden potential."

Kingsley frowned, watching as Minister Riddle abandoned the papers and made his way toward the door. "Where are you going?"

The Minister looked over his shoulder. "I think you have a solid handle on this case, Auror Shacklebolt. Question Cormac McLaggen and continue on from there. I will occasionally check up on your progress, but the case is in good hands with you."

He tried to remain unaffected, but he couldn't help but to feel a bit flattered at the man's praise. Minister Riddle was a man many tried to impress. As ashamed as he was to admit it, he felt flattered to have such a powerful and intelligent man see him in a respectable manner.

And yet, somehow, he felt a twinge of unease.

**. . & Darkness . .**

It wouldn't last long, this game of blaming McLaggen.

Harry frowned, staring through the viewing glass as the Tutshill Tornadoes played the Chudley Cannons. Next to him, Ron was on the edge of his seat, his feet bouncing up and down with excitement. He clutched his Omnioculars tightly, but he seemed to forget he had possession of them.

A fond smile played Harry's lips as he watched the redhead. The excitement and pure joy radiating off Ron was a welcomed change. For just a moment, Harry closed his eyes, inhaling and opening himself up to Ron's emotions. It had been ages since he'd ever felt this _human_ , this innocent. Merlin, he missed it. He would give anything to experience that excitement over a simple Quidditch match.

The adrenaline racing through Ron soon had adverse effects on Harry. His mind began to darken and his thirst for a hunt began to grow unbearable.

Quickly, he pulled away from Ron's emotions and turned his attention back on the game without really seeing it. It had been over five days since the incident with Hermione. Since then, he hadn't talked to her and she had been rather distant with Ron as well. It had also been five days since the Auror Department had the name _Cormac McLaggen_ whispered in their ear.

Unfortunately, it had also been more than a week since he'd stalked his next intended target.

He was supposed to be lying low, but it was also slowly destroying him. Underestimating Riddle had never been an option. For days, he felt as if he were being watched, tested. And because of that, he never stepped out of Harry Potter's character.

He would eventually have to outsmart the eyes watching his home, or he'd go insane.

He'd also have to tread carefully with McLaggen. For right now, putting the bug in the Aurors' ears would be enough. Why start slathering evidence that McLaggen was present during the murders? He had gone through eight victims so far without leaving a clue. If he suddenly left a piece of McLaggen's hair at the scene, it would look extremely suspicious. No, he had a subtle plan.

Even Riddle would have extreme doubts.

Riddle… the Minister was a bloody pain in the arse. Sirius had informed Harry that the Minister had walked away from the case the day McLaggen's name flourished. Either the man was disappointed in _Custos_ for being such an obvious individual like McLaggen _or_ the Minister didn't believe McLaggen was the suspect. Harry assumed it was the latter, but _why_ would Riddle not speak up and persuade the Aurors that McLaggen wasn't the one they were looking for?

Did the man have his own game he was playing? Did he somehow want to give Harry a false sense of security by making him believe the Aurors were on McLaggen's tail and he could now relax? The man would then watch from the shadows, waiting for Harry to let his guard down before striking.

No.

It couldn't be that. If that were the case, if Riddle were that intelligent and twisted, then Harry definitely had a dilemma on his hands.

Despite his refusal to believe Riddle would conduct his own investigation, away from the Aurors, Harry had a sinking feeling that his assumptions were correct. Nonetheless, Riddle would soon grow impatient by Harry's lack of action. Or, _seemingly_ lack of action. He would find ways to escape surveillance undetected. Moreover, he would use traces of McLaggen in the next murder, miniscule traces that would take the authorities a long time to track.

He knew just the thing.

"Bloody hell!"

Harry looked up just in time to see the Tornadoes score another point. He smoothed his expression into one of amused pity as Ron turned to look at him. "I guess the Canons just can't catch a break, can they Ron?"

The redhead turned red. "Go to hell, Harry. The Canons are going to take this one. Just you wait."

"I'll be looking forward to that," Harry replied dryly.

Ron shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. "I'll never get over the fact that I get to go to whatever game I want. You have the best job in the world, mate. Free tickets, free room and board on the road, the chance to talk to the players… free merchandise!" Ron gushed, his eyes bright. "Hey, do you think maybe Parvati and I could get tickets to the next game?"

"Parvati?" Harry repeated, unsure if he heard right. "I thought you two didn't get along. What about you and Hermione?"

The redhead grimaced sickly. "What about you and Ginny?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Ron immediately appeared guilty. "I'm sorry, I…" the boy trailed off, his blue eyes looking above Harry's head. His mouth fell into a perfect oval.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything, boys."

Harry's eyes widened a fraction as the purr-like voice echoed across the box they currently occupied.

That _man_!

He seethed, slowly turning around to glance at the Minister of Magic, immediately spying that egoistic smirk on the man's face. Harry prided himself with his sharp senses. And while he wouldn't be able to detect the man's approaching emotions due to the strong Occlumency block, he should have been able to _hear_ his approach.

The man had been silent, too silent.

"N-no… not us, I mean, no, not at all," Ron stuttered painfully, his eyes wide as he watched Riddle walk down the steps to the front of the box.

Harry smiled thinly, shaking his head as brown eyes turned in his direction. "Not at all, sir." He watched as Riddle turned back around toward the field, standing next to the glass.

Usually Harry sat in this box himself, other times Ludo Bagman, the old Head, would keep him company if Ron wasn't able to attend the game. Harry's box certainly wasn't the main attraction at the stadium. Other boxes were meant for high officials at the Ministry, or prestigious patrons that paid a large sum to reserve a luxurious seat. Harry, though, enjoyed the solitude this small box had to offer.

One would really have to search him out if they wanted to find him.

"I don't recall you being a Quidditch fan, sir, especially just for Regional games." The fan base had a larger turnover for National games, whenever England hosted a team at home. Even then, Harry couldn't quite recall a time Minister Riddle sat in his prestigious box.

Riddle, his hands clasped behind his back, turned to look at Harry. "I came to see what all the fuss was about for the Chudley Canons." The older man smiled warmly, a bit too warmly at Ron. "When I spoke to Mr. Weasley last week, he suggested I attend the game. I truly hope I'm not intruding on anything."

Shock jolted across Harry at the turn of events. Ron had successfully mentioned the name Cormac McLaggen to Riddle, but Harry hadn't thought they would be so… _chummy._ If the topic of Chudley Canons had come out, what else was mentioned between the two?

Unsettled, but not missing a beat, Harry offered the Minister a toothy smile. He reached over and slapped Ron on the back, perhaps a bit too harshly. The boy's cheeks reddened with shame, but he kept his eyes focused on the game. No doubt he was afraid Harry would be upset that he invited the Minister.

"I'm afraid Ron steered you wrong, Minister. You see, he's had this unhealthy obsession with the Chudley Canons since he was young. As you can see, they aren't good enough to warrant his overzealous loyalty." He noticed Ron appeared a bit less green at Harry's good-natured response.

"We all have an unhealthy obsession, Mr. Potter." Riddle responded silkily, his eyes penetrating as they held Harry. "It takes a great deal to break that obsession once it's begun."

Harry's mouth grew dry, never remembering a time he had felt so… _owned_.

The man's cheater glasses did nothing to soften the aggressive eyes as they looked straight through Harry. The younger wizard found himself looking away in submission, internally screaming at himself for being so meek. The Minister was definitely not shy in his challenges today. Apparently, the man was now more than ever convinced Harry was _Custos._

Hating himself for turning away from a direct challenge, Harry forced himself to look back at the Minister, this time, noticing the man was offering a pleased smirk and his eyes were not nearly as penetrating as they had been. The man had actually made Harry tuck his tail between his legs.

It wasn't supposed to be like this!

"I suppose you're right," Harry acknowledged the man's earlier comment. "Obsessions are tricky buggers. Here, please sit." He patted the seat next to him, grinning widely past the burning hate _._

Riddle nodded gratefully and sat down, his pose fluid and showing no signs of uneasiness. Instead, the man radiated _smugness._ Suddenly, as if to antagonize Harry further, Riddle lounged arrogantly in his chair, crossing his legs together and throwing a casual arm across the back of Harry's seat. The Minister's posture was dominant and challenging as it angled toward Harry.

The younger breathed harshly through his nose and kept motionless, his blank eyes watching the Quidditch match without really seeing it. He had a sinking suspicion that Riddle had found a new tactic to force Harry's hand.

They were both _Alpha men_.

What better way to get Harry to slip than by playing on his weakness? With anyone else, Harry found it easy to shrug off his controlling tendencies, only because he didn't see them as a threat. With Riddle, though, it was a whole different playing field. The man got on his nerves and it was difficult _resisting_ _the urge_ to rise up to the challenge.

He glowered at the players on the pitch when the arm behind him grew impossible to ignore. With a casual air, Harry leaned forward in his chair, away from the arm stretching behind him. Even with the Occlumency barriers, he knew Riddle was basking in another quiet victory.

Harry glanced at Ron, the redhead oblivious to his companion's mental struggle.

Riddle obviously didn't think Ron a threat and felt confident enough to forgo his Minister act. To think Riddle was this forward with Ron present made Harry realize it probably wouldn't be a good idea to be alone with the man. Arguably, Harry would lose control and then he would have a very large problem on his hands.

"Mr. Weasley and I had a very pleasant conversation last Friday," the Minister drawled, drawing Ron's sudden interest, enough to pull him away from the Canons.

Harry planted one hand against his head as he faced Ron's direction, away from the Minister. His position permitted him to observe the flush staining Ron's face. The overwhelming taste of flattery soured Harry's tongue as he realized his redheaded companion was complete putty in the Minister's hands. He couldn't exactly blame the boy. Ron was a struggling Auror-in-training. To have the Minister's approval and interest was a quick ticket out of training and into the field.

"Is that right?" Harry wondered vaguely, tossing the Minister a glance long enough to label it as respectful eye contact. The arrogance oozing from the elder man made Harry sick.

"Yes," Riddle answered Harry cordially. "I was impressed with his dedication. As the youngest son of the Weasley family, he has taken the initiative to stand apart from his brothers and make a name for himself. He will make a _fine_ Auror that will do the Ministry proud."

Harry straightened from his hunched position and out-right stared at the Minister. His mouth had fallen open and he gave a dry chuckle. It drew Ron's betrayed attention and Harry struggled to gain his self-control. The man was _good_. Taking all of Ron's insecurities and using them as means of bait. The Minister had Ron eating out of the palm of his hand, all because he identified Ron's deep-seeded doubts and gave him false security.

He chuckled once again at Riddle before turning to look at Ron. "That's what I try to tell him all the time, Minister. I guess he just needed to hear it from an unbiased source." He winked at Ron, easily soothing the redhead's anxiety.

"Thanks Harry, Minister." Ron nodded his gratitude. "But I told Minister Riddle you'd make a far better Auror than I would, Harry. I mean, you made an impressive Seeker, but you were wicked in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

_Oh Ron…_

Ron wasn't an idiot, but at times, Harry tended to think otherwise. The redhead was loyal and he was a good friend. Harry couldn't ask for a better person standing beside him, and yet, there was always that small part of him that wanted to shake off his friends and continue alone. It would be easier to cover his tracks if he didn't have someone like Ron handing out blatant clues to his enemies.

"A very interesting claim," Riddle's tone demanded Harry's attention. "Ms. Granger said something similar to me when I spoke to her."

It wasn't a big deal, Harry supposed. Dueling and DADA had nothing to do with _Custos._ "I suppose," Harry acknowledged, offering the man a sheepish grin. "It's not that big of a deal. I was more interested in Quidditch. My mother always told me to chase after what made me happy."

Deep brown eyes caught Harry's gaze. "A smart woman," he praised. "It is very unfortunate what happened to her and your father. Mr. Weasley and I agreed that being an Auror may help you cope with what happened, a way to release some of your pent-up aggression, perhaps."

Harry's whole being froze. Even his pulse came to a staggering halt before accelerating unevenly in his chest. His upper lip began to twitch and his hands began to tremble. Curling his hands into fists, Harry turned away from Riddle and threw an accusing stare in Ron's direction.

"No," Ron denied sharply, suddenly pale. "I only mentioned that I was surprised you didn't choose to become an Auror after your parents' murder. I didn't say anything else about it, Harry." His eyes were imploring as he looked at Riddle over Harry's head, silently begging the older man to reassure him.

"Oh, of course. Mr. Potter, I assure you that Mr. Weasley was the ever-loyal friend. He never disclosed anything personal." Riddle reached over and patted Harry on the knee, chuckling when Harry jerked it away from his hand. "No need to get hostile."

"I'm not hostile," Harry argued, struggling to reign in his control. He then looked Riddle in the eye, not caring if the man saw it as a challenge. Harry Potter could get angry, not every angry wizard was _Custos._ "If you have questions relating to me personally, sir, I would prefer if you approached _me_ and not my friends. On top of that, I would also prefer if we kept our conversations strictly on politics or Quidditch. Knowing your dislike for Quidditch and my dislike of politics, we have nothing more to discuss."

Ron stood up quickly from his seat, his eyes wide and his mouth opened in shocked dismay. "I- I have to go use the loo. Excuse me."

Harry refused to look away from Riddle, knowing beneath that gentle mask of concern, a predator lurked. As if to prove Harry's speculation, the Minister's face contorted into dark amusement as soon as Ron exited the box. He leaned closer, easily getting in Harry's personal space.

"Such green eyes you have, Harry," he purred, "why hide them?"

The younger wizard closed his eyes, breathing to steady himself. "I don't know what you want from me."

He could play the innocent and he could also play the victim. Opening his eyes once again, he was almost taken aback by the raw power Riddle channeled. It was startling to look underneath the Minister's mask and peer into something that was much more than a predator. Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering the mystery that was Riddle.

What was the man? What were his motives?

Before Harry decided to play with the man's exposed self, he forced himself to stand and walk away. He braced his hands against the glass of the box and stared out into the pitch. "I know you're investigating _Custos._ And I know, for some reason, your focus is on me." He turned, pressing his back into the viewing glass and glancing at the Minister through lowered lids. "Yes, my parents were murdered two years ago and I witnessed it."

Harry permitted his voice catch, but cleared his throat a moment later. "I guess the death of my parents could make me a prime suspect. And I guess my limp makes me suspicious, on top of my decision to play Quidditch instead of being an Auror." He gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, all those incriminating clues point to a solid making of a serial killer."

Riddle, still lounged easily in his chair, tipped back his head and let a pleased chuckle escape. "I'll let you in on a secret of mine, Harry, only because I know one of your own." The Minister suddenly stood and approached Harry with grace a man his age couldn't possibly possess. He then placed an arm on the glass beside Harry and leaned forward, their eyes level. "I can detect lies," the man hissed. "And _you_ are a walking, talking contradiction."

Harry stared at the man. "Really?" he asked in dry humor. As if he'd fall for that juvenile trick. "Then ask me if I'm _Custos_ and let me know if I'm lying."

The tall wizard suddenly pulled away from Harry and smiled cruelly. "Oh no, I wouldn't do that," he admonished. "Not only because I already know the answer, but because I enjoy this game between you and me." A hand curled around Harry's chin, grabbing it possessively. "I _will_ catch you red-handed. And when I do, I will be eager to see what really hides beneath that innocent façade of yours."

Harry tried to pull his chin out of the man's grasp. When it proved he would have to use force to extract himself from the Minister, Harry slumped against the window in boneless submission.

"You're really insane," Harry chided, snickering in wary amusement.

_If_ it ever came down to Riddle catching him red-handed, then Harry could hardly wait. Ever since all these challenges of dominance had begun, Harry's desire to wrap his hands around Riddle's neck had intensified. In fact, he _hoped_ Riddle would catch him in the act. He looked forward the show Riddle who _truly_ belonged on top.

Minister Riddle tsked and released Harry. "So good to see you again, Mr. Potter." The wizard backed away from Harry. "I had hoped you wouldn't be in poor spirits after your argument with Ms. Granger."

Harry frowned, his eyebrows rising in mock confusion. Surely the man wouldn't know about his argument with Hermione. Even though Ron noticed Hermione's distance the past few days, the redhead didn't know the cause of it.

"The two of you used to eat lunch together, now you avoid each other in the corridors." Riddle shook his head, running a hand down his parted hair, assured each strand was in perfect order. "I'd certainly love to see that argument unfold through her eyes. She is a level-headed witch; I can't imagine it was about anything petty."

It took Harry a moment to grasp Riddle's hinting. When he finally connected the dots, the Minister had already exited the box.

Harry straightened from his position against the glass, suddenly vulnerable. He hated himself for letting Hermione walk away from him that night, especially now that Riddle planned to use Legilimency on her.

Unfortunately, Harry couldn't _obliviate_ Hermione, no, that was exactly what _he_ wanted. Riddle would be watching Hermione, waiting for Harry to show his hand. If Harry took the bait and _obliviated_ Hermione, then it would send a message to Riddle that he really was guilty and he had something to hide. Not to mention, an _obliviate_ could be broken. However, if he did nothing, then Riddle may stay true to his threat and perform Legilimency on her.

He pressed his lips together as rage washed through him.

He would be damned if he was bested by Tom Riddle.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: Grammar mistakes, a small adult scene, and a murder that is… rather explosive and gory (though, you won't get the full effect of it until next chapter). It is not Harry's typical killing style, as he isn't very flashy (he's more of a silent type), but this kill is an exception.

**Chapter Four**

_Blood_.

It had always fascinated him.

His eyes rolled back into his head as he gave another heave, thick crimson liquid splashing audibly against the tiled floor as he vomited. Gasping for air, Harry shakily pressed his palms against the floor, smearing the blood with his fingers as he attempted to pull himself up. Through hazy eyes, he considered the loo.

It was so close. He supposed he could have crawled the extra distance and safely deposited his dinner from the night before and the blood that had begun to expel. But he hadn't had the strength.

Now on his knees, Harry let the world spin as he adjusted to being upright. His stomach clenched in protest but he held it down, refusing to let anything else escape his orifices. Though, he couldn't stop the blood dripping steadily from his nostrils. He watched as the droplets patted the white tiles, fascinated with the perfect crimson circles.

"Do you need help?" a voice inquired with tentative concern.

Harry grunted, sniffing his noise and swallowing the iron-flavored liquid that slid down the back of his throat. He slowly turned his head toward the wizard standing in the doorway of his bathroom. The man was of average-height, if not a bit short. He didn't look like much of a threat, with his lithe stature and chiseled features hidden behind ugly glasses. Brilliant green eyes were clear and strong, their true vibrancy weakened underneath the lenses.

"No," Harry snapped miserably, giving the mirror-double a look of disdain. "You'll forget this once you leave the room. Go eat breakfast. Work starts shortly."

Through lowered lashes, he watched as his double shuffled uncertainly, the limp in the man's step a perfect imitation of his own. Harry felt a stab of pride as he watched the double's instinctive movements function _perfectly_. The movements were confident, but also a bit awkward—just like the old Harry Potter.

Kneeling in his own vomit and blood, Harry clutched the edge of the counter, sagging in misery. Slowly, he raised his bowed head and stared at himself in the mirror. His face was unnaturally pale and dark circles hugged his eyes. His normally messy hair was now limp with sweat and grease.

And his eyes, now free from glasses, were unusually bright in self-disgust and dark pride.

He frowned. "You'd be disappointed in me, Mum… Dad…"

It wasn't the fact that he killed _monsters_ that would disappoint them. No, his blackened fingers and the stench of Dark Magic would pain them. To realize how far he'd fallen…

He clenched his eyes shut, refusing to see the person staring back at him. He practiced the deep breathing his therapist taught him, paying special attention to keep his shoulders and body relaxed. With each exhale of breath, he felt his tension easing and his head clearing.

However, his mind wasn't entirely clear, not after forcing his body through hours of magical exhaustion.

As soon as he had left the Quidditch game yesterday, his mind had been in turmoil. At first, he had accepted the fact that Riddle knew he was _Custos._ He had tried to plot around that and accept having an enemy who was just as much a riddle as his name implied. He hadn't known the man's intentions; he didn't know what Riddle planned to do with the knowledge.

But then he had come to his senses.

Even _if_ Riddle could somehow sense lies, it would be because he was a master Legilimens. Legilimens' could detect untruthfulness. Dumbledore had been the same, as was Snape. He also couldn't feel the man's emotions and he doubted his Empathy would be able to manipulate the man's emotions.

Harry had the ability to manipulate someone skilled at Occlumency, but he was powerless against a master.

Riddle was a master. And while Harry had an extremely feeble grasp of Occlumency, he knew he would be no match against someone like Riddle. Either would Hermione. Nonetheless, while he believed Riddle was bluffing about approaching Hermione, Harry still took the threat seriously. That was, until Ron casually mentioned that Hermione was visiting her parents for the remainder of the week.

No matter her reasons for taking time off work, he was extremely fortunate. Her timing worked out in his favor and it also gave him time to _think_ on his next move.

Riddle detected untruthfulness from him. In the Minister's mind, that automatically gave him the impression that he was _Custos._ However, everyone had secrets. Did they not? _Custos_ aside, Harry had other secrets. His parents' murder was an extremely personal tragedy. In fact, he had only told Sirius and Hermione the bare facts and even his therapist didn't know half of it.

So yes, Harry was hiding something. Even if the man was confident that Harry was _Custos,_ he still didn't have _proof_ , He had useless theories. Harry was eager to show Riddle that evidence was an important resource, especially when he showed his cards so early.

The Minister wanted to _play._ Harry didn't want to disappoint the man, he would, indeed, play a game with Riddle, but it wouldn't be the game Riddle had initiated. The Minister wanted to play cat-and-mouse, and that happened to be the man's weakness. Cat-and-mouse derived from the fact that cats often played with their prey by releasing it after capture.

Such arrogance, such stupidity.

If Riddle had just pushed a little further yesterday at the Quidditch match, he would have had his claws firmly imbedded inside Harry. Instead, he wanted to play with his prey, and in turn, it gave Harry time to recover and scheme.

Their current dance was not working in Harry's benefit. After coming to that sudden realization, Harry knew he would have to make sacrifices in order to win this.

One of those sacrifices was his purity. Magical purity, that is. Having a godfather that came from a Dark family had its benefits, as did the books of Dark rituals in the Black library. Doppelgängers were… nasty things. It involved a sacrifice that Harry hadn't been all that ashamed of.

A simple (corrupt) human life had been taken and the man's memories were wiped completely clean and replaced.

Creating the Doppelgänger with a time limit had also been challenging. His first attempt had been sloppy and he had almost killed the copy his first go around. During his second attempt, he had missed a step in the ritual and created a copy of himself with the mental capacity of a child. While the third go-around had been a success, it had drained Harry and the Dark Magic took its toll on his body.

The Doppelgänger wasn't perfect, but it would do. Doppelgängers had no glamours, had no illusions. Dark Magic created a perfect copy of its creator. Only, Harry got to pick what memories it received.

He had woven all his memories into his copy, all with the exception of being _Custos._ He had also dulled his parents' murder into memories that weren't quite as clear as his were. There were also a few memories he had to omit that led him down the path of _Custos._ The Doppelgänger didn't have the memories of his spinal surgery, he didn't have memories of the long hours studying human anatomy, the endless weeks and months of physical training, his Animagus training, etcetera.

It had been difficult deciding if he should give his copy the ability of Empathy. In the end, he had given just a trickle of it.

Harry Potter had been remade. No one, Riddle included, would be able to detect that it was a Doppelgänger unless they were informed. Even if Riddle somehow entered the Doppelgänger's mind, which Harry was hoping for, there would be no memory of two Harry's. The Doppelgänger thought himself as the real Harry Potter and his mind would blur the existence of Harry.

Doppelgängers were rare. They were Dark. Moreover, wizards with _power_ created them. No one would believe Harry Potter would have the ability to make one, especially Tom Riddle. He came from a Light family and many believed he was just a hair above average when it came to magical power.

Riddle would be chasing his fucking tail.

Harry's eyes slanted in amusement.

Magically, he cleared away the mess on the floor and focused on his unregistered Animagus form.

His magic groaned around him and gave off tiny sparks to exaggerate its exhaustion. Harry ignored it and sat on his haunches. His limbs shrunk and cracked, the transformation a bit more difficult than normal due to his shocked magical core. No matter, he would recover.

Pointed black ears grew on top of his head and he could hear the Doppelgänger tinkering around in the kitchen. Harry groaned and it morphed into a pitiful meow. His vision grew sharper as did his other senses. He could hear his Doppelgänger pause in the kitchen before shuffling down the hallway.

The Harry-copy peered around the corner, blinking down at him. "I was wondering where you were, Merlin."

Harry glowered as his 'owner' lifted him off the ground and carried him toward the kitchen. As soon as they were within distance, Harry leaped from his owner's hands and onto the kitchen counter. Across from him, the reflection off the teapot revealed a small furry, black cat.

Before he died, James had started giving Harry private Animagus lessons. During that time, Harry had seen his Animagus form as a canine. When he resumed his lessons after his parents' death, he realized his personality had changed enough to warrant a new Animagus form.

When the initial shock of being a cat dissipated, Harry realized that he wasn't just a cat but a kneazle.

He didn't have the lion-tail that kneazles usually possessed, but he _did_ have their sharp teeth and claws, and their unnatural speed and agility. When he researched what breed of kneazle he was, he also found out that he carried venom through his bite. He doubted his Animagus form would actually carry the venom, but it would be useful if it did.

The Doppelgänger suddenly dropped a plate of tuna in front of him and Harry slowly began to eat, mindful of his upset stomach. He kept an ear perked as he heard the fireplace activate. Throwing a glance at the clock, Harry was surprised to see it was already a quarter to eight.

If he had taken just a bit longer…

"Harry!" Sirius bounded into the kitchen, coming up short when he saw the black cat on the counter. "I didn't know you got a cat." A growl rumbled deep in his chest and his hackles rose.

Harry cast him an unimpressed look and went back to his tuna. He listened carefully as his Doppelgänger replied, paying special attention to the way the copy moved and spoke.

"I took him in last night. I didn't have the heart to leave him outside my door. Bloody thing threw up on the bathroom floor this morning." The copy-Harry shoveled cornflakes into his mouth. "Sirius, you really don't have to approach Riddle. Please, I can take care of it myself."

Sirius turned somber. "You know that is out of the question, Harry. That smug bastard will get what's coming to him."

Harry calmly lifted a paw and licked between his claws, chuckling mentally. Another thing Riddle wouldn't expect is Harry bringing in other players in their game. The Minister likely thought Harry would carry this burden on his own shoulders. After all, a guilty man liked to involve as few people as possible, least something go awry and he get caught red-handed.

Riddle wouldn't know what to do.

A Doppelgänger and its creator had a special mind bond. Harry intended to use it to his advantage to see what he missed as the Doppelgänger paraded around as Harry Potter.

After all, he needed to be places today. He couldn't waste precious time at work.

**. . D** **reams . .**

Kingsley shook his head, exasperated at the wizard tearing through the halls of the Ministry.

Sirius Black had a look of stubborn defiance on his features and nothing Kingsley said would soothe the man. Then again, he _was_ a bit curious how his Auror would handle the Minister. Riddle needed to be reminded of ethical boundaries.

"Minister Riddle is in a meeting with—"

Sirius growled, brushing roughly past the woman whose desk sat next to the Minister's office. Two Aurors stood on either side of the Minister's closed door, their wand arms crossed over their chest in a stance that would stun anyone who forced their way inside.

Kingsley saw Sirius' readied form and sighed.

"Stand aside, gentlemen," he ordered. The last thing he wanted was an inner-Department feud. Aurors fighting Aurors would simply not be acceptable. It would cause unneeded scrutiny and perhaps even a few job suspensions. With the public already in disarray over the _Custos_ case, Kingsley would need all the men he could trust at his back.

At the Head Auror's command, the two guards loosened their stance and cast a suspicious glance at Black. The man took the initiative to barge inside Riddle's office with Kingsley motioning Potter in before him.

The two wizards who sat in front of Riddle's desk turned at their entrance. Kingsley did his best to remain impassive at the sight of them, but Sirius wasn't so controlled. After all, the sight of Lucius Malfoy and Theo Crabbe was enough to set anyone's teeth on edge.

"What is the meaning of this?" Minister Riddle demanded sharply. The man's eyes landed on Harry Potter standing to the side and gave a positively frightening smile. "Mr. Potter, I should have known."

Kingsley crossed his arms, drawing the Minister's attention away from the boy. Potter had a stubborn lift to his chin, but Kingsley could see the flush of both anger and embarrassment. And now, with both Malfoy's and Crabbe's unwavering attention on him, Potter threw his head in a reflexive gesture of unease.

Kingsley didn't blame the boy one bit.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Crabbe, please excuse us." The Minister calmly motioned toward the door where curious Ministry workers crammed their necks to get a good look inside. "We will speak another time."

As the two wizards stood gracefully from their chairs, their expressions were hidden behind impassive masks. Kingsley tried his best to keep his own expression subdued when they walked past him. There was nothing unusual about Riddle surrounding himself with powerful and influential pure-bloods.

Pure-bloods had a large hold over the Ministry politics, and for a moment, Kingsley wondered who was in charge. Did Riddle have control over his pure-bloods and his Ministry? Or did the pure-bloods have control over the Minister? He didn't get much time to dwell on the matter before Sirius lunged across the Minister's desk.

"Sirius!" Potter growled in surprise.

Auror Black pressed Riddle up against the wall, a hand to his throat in a matter of seconds. Kingsley stood at attention, knowing Sirius had a temper, but never realizing the man would be so stupid as to attack the Minister of Magic. Black could lose his job for this little bout of rage.

Cautiously, Kingsley drew his wand from its holster. If it got further out of hand, he would act.

"If you ever threaten my godson again, I will kill you," Sirius barked, never the one for subtle viciousness. His upper lip peeled away from his teeth and he snapped his jaws near Riddle's face. "He's been through too much already to have you breathing down his neck and threatening the people he cares for."

Potter shuffled closer, his hand out and his eyes intense. "Let him go, Sirius. You promised you wouldn't attack him."

Riddle's eyes widened a fraction at Sirius' blunt attack, but they narrowed seconds later. "A brilliant suggestion, Mr. Potter. If your godfather doesn't release me this instance, _I_ will take great pleasure in revoking that Auror badge he likes to take for granted."

It seemed like minutes passed as all three wizards froze, no longer moving, no longer attacking. Finally, after a long look at his godson, Sirius released Riddle but didn't feel it necessary to give the Minister room.

"Harry told me how you confronted him at the Quidditch match yesterday, Riddle. How you believe he's some kind of deranged psychopath, hell bent on hiding that he's actually _Custos._ "

Kingsley kept his wand accessible while crossing his arms over his chest. He watched, noticing a knot form between Riddle's eyebrows. The Minister's eyes flickered once toward Potter and then to Kingsley and Sirius. It appeared as if the man were quietly calculating.

"That is not true," Riddle admonished. "I never claimed Mr. Potter was a deranged psychopath."

Sirius growled. "You all but suggested it through your words, you slimy bastard. Not only does Harry have to deal with your slander and acquisitions, but he also has to stomach the thought of you threatening his friends. Legilimency, Riddle, really? What did Hermione ever do to warrant your suspicions?"

Kingsley cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I must confess myself disappointed when I heard what happened, Minister. For you to threaten an innocent witch with Legilimency is unthinkable. Not only does it violate her rights, but also her personal privacy. For this reason, I have assigned security detail around Ms. Granger. Should you approach her without her expressed permission, I have given my men the right to arrest you."

Riddle drew himself upright, seemingly drawing in the power around the room. His eyes were bright behind his glasses and he kept his chin lifted in the face of several verbal attacks. Kingsley had to give the man due respect. It took a strong and confident wizard to keep his stance in a situation like this.

Before Riddle could speak, someone beat him to it.

"I am not _Custos._ "

All eyes turned to Harry Potter. Even from behind the thick lenses, the boy's green eyes seemed to hold a light of their own. For a moment, Kingsley saw the spirit of James Potter in his son. The voice held such strong conviction that Kingsley felt any doubts wash away.

"I am not _Custos_ ," Potter repeated, his eyes locked on Riddle.

One had to know what to look for in order to spy the Minister's surprise. Kingsley understood a moment later why a simple confession swayed Riddle.

"At the Quidditch game yesterday, I wanted you to ask me if I was _Custos._ You said you could detect lies and I know that's a trait for a master Legilimens. You should be able to sense my utter truthfulness when I tell you that I am not the serial killer and I have never killed before." Potter breathed through his nose, his eyes never leaving Riddle.

"Why didn't you tell him yesterday that you were not _Custos,_ Mr. Potter?" Kingsley asked.

A flush stained the young wizard's cheeks and he gave Sirius a shameful expression. "Minister Riddle has been suspicious of me ever since he came to my office for questioning. At the time, I didn't know he was a master Legilimens and I was a bit… flattered to have his attention." Potter paused, clearly disappointed in his own actions. "I didn't know what caught his attention, but it made me think about something other than my parents' death. It was kind of like a… a game."

"A very dangerous game, Mr. Potter," Kingsley murmured, disappointed, but somehow sympathetic.

He understood the boy's feelings. Riddle was a very powerful man. Men and women alike seemed to want to consume their very lives with the Minister, vying for a chance for the man to notice them. It didn't help that Riddle had egged Harry on by humoring the boy's wistful urges.

"I know, I _know_ ," Potter agreed, pulling once at his hair before turning back to Riddle and Sirius. "I guess I woke up to reality when I realized it was going too far. Especially when he began threatening Hermione, thinking that she harbored secrets. And you should know, Minister Riddle, that I do anything to protect my friends and family."

Here, the younger man stared pointedly at Riddle.

Sirius wrapped an arm around Potter's shoulders, offering support. Kingsley watched the three wizards, disenchanted it had come this far, disenchanted that _Riddle_ would take it this far.

Riddle's upper lip sneered as he looked at Potter, but otherwise, he kept his face veiled. "It was not my intention to _frighten_ you so much that you had to run to your godfather, Potter." The Minister pushed away from the wall and calmly walked back to his desk. "You lack a spine."

Before Sirius could make another physical attack, Potter grabbed him around the waist. The young wizard set his stance and threw his shoulders back in defiance. Kingsley watched in rapt attention. He could see confidence and stubbornness beneath Potter's normally awkward-casual exterior. Many Aurors under Kingsley's command possessed that attribute.

Perhaps Harry Potter was too uncomfortable and too modest to embrace that side of him.

He could see why Riddle would be suspicious of Potter. It appeared as if Potter hid his true abilities underneath a happy-go-lucky mask. But Kingsley saw it for what it was. Harry Potter was just humble and only showed his hand if someone stepped on his freewill or threatened his loved ones.

"Quite frankly, sir, I don't give a damn what you think about me. You had no right to threaten my friends and myself. If you have any questions regarding the _Custos_ case, you may question me in the presence of other Aurors." Potter and Riddle engaged in a staring contest before, understandably, Potter looked away.

"You think you can make demands, Potter?" Riddle wondered in amusement.

"No." Kingsley stepped forward, intending to take over from here. "He is in the right to ask those things of you, Minister Riddle." Here, he raised his eyebrows at Sirius and Harry. "Please leave us, Auror Black, Mr. Potter."

Before Sirius could offer anymore of his eloquent input, Potter pulled him out the door, ignorant of the Minister's eyes following him. Kingsley, however, was not. He stepped into the Minister's line of sight, only speaking when the door behind them closed once again.

"I am disappointed—"

"Save your words of justice for someone who is easily swayed, Auror Shacklebolt." The Minister sat back down at his desk, his face a slate of formality. "I made a mistake; I understand the consequences of my actions quite well, thank you."

"Did you truly think Harry Potter was _Custos_?" he questioned with hilarity.

The thin smile Riddle offered was chilling. "Perhaps just as much as you, Kingsley."

Kingsley bristled. "I don't know what—"

"The security detail you have watching the boy? Come now, I am not easily fooled."

The Aurors _had_ been assigned to watch Harry Potter, yes. And Kingsley supposed he had some suspicions regarding the boy. But he also had suspicion regarding Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, as well as Cormac McLaggen. All of them were being watched. Not just Harry Potter.

"And how would you know what my Aurors are doing, Minister Riddle?" Kingsley allowed his own unnerving smile to cross his lips. "Unspeakables at your beck-and-call or your own secret army you claimed did not exist?"

Riddle, completely unfazed with Kingsley's attempt of intimidation, chuckled quietly. "I have eyes everywhere, Auror Shacklebolt. You do not need to concern yourself over their identities."

It was almost frightening, knowing that his position as Head Auror gave him a great deal of power, but not enough power to override the Minister. Kingsley didn't know what Riddle was up to, or if the man was even up to _anything._ He just felt uneasy in the man's presence. And he wasn't about to throw out his reliable sixth sense because he couldn't see the reason behind his uneasiness.

"I will not interrogate Mr. Potter without your permission," Riddle continued, his face back to its elderly pleasantry. "I don't believe he holds anything worthwhile."

"I remember you said something similar when we first spoke with him regarding _Custos_ , back in his office," Kingsley retorted, pleased that he remembered. "Nevertheless, I agree he is not _Custos._ I would, however, like your cooperation on this case, Minister. You bring good ideals to the mix. If you have theories, I suggest you come to me and we can _legally_ execute them." He nodded his goodbye and turned to leave.

"Kingsley," Minister Riddle called after him. "I didn't recall hearing about the deaths of Lily and James Potter when it happened, only a few whispers of it in passing. And I don't remember hearing of the trial or the outcome. What happened with the Potters?"

Kingsley turned around, ready to tell the Minister off. However, when he looked at the guiltless expression on Riddle's face, he found his tongue loosening. He couldn't look away from those penetrating brown eyes.

"Lily and James Potter were upheld citizens, truly. It would have been a publicized case, but Harry and Sirius requested it be kept quiet. They were murdered, I know that much. I believe it was an act of jealousy and personal vengeance." Kingsley squinted, his eyes watering as he focused intentionally on Riddle's unwavering gaze. "That's all I know…"

Riddle frowned, disinterested with the whole affair, and waved a hand. "I thought so, nothing too tragic. Good day, Auror Shacklebolt."

He left this time, feeling as if his head was swimming and far too heavy to hold up.

**. . & Darkness . .**

A small smile crossed Harry's lips as he opened his eyes. He had merged his mind with his Doppelgänger and had witnessed the scene from Minister Riddle's office first-hand. It had been… a work of art.

He had imagined each character's reactions and the final act couldn't have gone any better.

_And Riddle!_

Harry calmly lifted his teacup and sipped from the scalding liquid. Even the splash of lemon and honey couldn't compete with what he felt presently. Nothing tasted sweeter than Riddle's doubt. After all, his Doppelgänger had looked a master Legilimens _in the eye_ and told the naked truth.

He was not _Custos._

Riddle would have sensed the truthfulness in that statement and he would have felt surprise.

Of course, Harry also knew Riddle was stubborn. Either he would keep Harry at a distance and continue to observe, or he would attack brutally to prove his point. Riddle didn't like to be wrong and the man was most likely stewing over the fact that Kingsley, Sirius, _and_ Harry had cornered him in his own office and reprimanded him like a child.

Oh yes, Riddle wouldn't sit back and stew. Riddle would make his move soon and he would make it brutal.

It didn't matter. Harry was prepared for whatever Riddle threw at him. The Doppelgänger would be Riddle's target and Harry intended to stay out of the way, if not nudge the two together. It was likely Riddle would attack the copy, hoping to bring out its true nature or perform Legilimency in more depth.

That was ok, simply because the Doppelgänger had nothing to hide, nothing but a few shocking glimpses of his parents' murder. After Riddle witnessed the lack of incriminating evidence, he would have to accept his mistake and move on.

It _was_ a bit saddening to lose such a fierce and worthwhile opponent. But Harry knew he had to move on just as Riddle. He had more important things to focus on.

"I said I wanted mustard on the side, not on top," Cormac McLaggen chastised the server with a haughty tone. "I come here every day; I would have thought you'd know by now."

The girl, a pretty brunette, flushed hotly. "I- but I'm new here."

Cormac ran his eyes the length of her body before sighing. He handed the platter back to her, almost making her drop it in his haste to release it. "That is acceptable. In your pardon, I would like another sandwich. Thank you." He dismissed her, turning back to the rolls of parchment on his table. Picking up a quill, he made corrections and notes with a flourish.

Harry watched, his eyes lingering across the boy's face.

He hadn't paid much attention to the boy at school, but he knew McLaggen was arrogant and haughty. There were different levels of arrogance. There was arrogance that stemmed from an ability someone excelled in and it didn't have much recourse on the individual in question. Then there was arrogance from an individual's own warped mind that they were superior to others.

Harry and Riddle both possessed the latter type of arrogance, and, unfortunately, so did McLaggen.

However, the difference was how they handled that arrogance and how they allowed that arrogance to run their actions.

It made Harry and Riddle graceful, smarter, and _superior_. McLaggen's arrogance made him stupid and blind. And _that_ was how Harry planned to lead McLaggen around by the noose.

Under a mild charm that would give him different features, Harry leaned back in his chair and stirred his tea. Cormac was right about one thing, he _did_ come to this Wizarding restaurant every day for lunch. Every day, he'd sit at that table and order the same thing while he worked his cases. The only thing that changed his routine is that Hermione would accompany him some days. But Hermione wasn't here today; she was still at her parents' house.

Harry grabbed the parchment near his cup, glancing over the letter once more.

_Dear Harry,_

_I understand your request, doubtless of whether I approve of it or not. I will not speak of the matter we have discussed that night and I will not bring it up again. But I will not stand down on my belief that you need help, Harry. If you ever change your mind about accepting my help, I will wait for you. I truly believe you can heal from this. However, I will not force it on you and I will not bring it to an outsider's attention. You are my friend and always will be. Your protection and happiness have always been my top priority. But that doesn't mean I will be able to interact with you the same way I had before. For Ron's and Ginny's sake, I will try._

_I received Sirius' charm that blocks Legilimency attacks. I will wear it and protect my secrets. Riddle has no right to come into my mind uninvited and I guarantee you that he hasn't done so already._

_My parents are well. It has been so long since I've spent time with them. Sometimes I remember you and think you would do well to stay with them for a while. Just because your parents are gone, doesn't mean there are not others here that will love you just as much if you let them in._

_Please be safe,_

_Hermione_

Harry had her silence for now, though, he knew he couldn't depend on her to keep her word forever. Eventually, Harry would have to decide what to do with her. An _obliviate_ would do, especially if he successfully shook Riddle off his tail.

Now that he had Hermione and Riddle under control for now, he could focus on directing _Custos_ away from Harry Potter. He needed evidence of McLaggen at the scene of the crime, but not enough evidence to convict the boy. Subtly would work and it would make the Aurors chase after Cormac, but never fast enough to catch him.

Cormac had a routine he followed honorably and it would be easy enough to work around it. There would no doubt be Aurors watching McLaggen so Harry would have to keep his distance and rely on glamours to keep his face as disguised as possible.

Green eyes traced casually over the wand Cormac had abandoned on his table. The boy hardly touched it or used it, too absorbed in his legal work. It left him wide open for an attack.

Harry picked up his tea once again, feeling strangely at ease for the first time in ages. He didn't need to keep the heavy mask of Harry Potter on his face, he didn't need to interact with his friends as if everything were back to normal… he could be _himself_. He could hunt and he could scheme, all the while, the Doppelgänger was at the Ministry, eating lunch with Ron or Sirius and acting sane.

He had doubts about the Doppelgänger, he still did, but right now, he wanted to keep his mind clear for his next plan of action. After all, his target number nine was waiting for him.

**. . Collide . .**

Number nine sat vulnerably, her hair bound up in elaborate twists, revealing the thin and arching neck.

She seemed out of place in the tavern, doubtless that it was one of the most posh and dignified Wizarding taverns in Britain. Ordered drinks were zooming over the heads of the guests, veering sharply if someone stood in its path. The floor was charmed to alter appearance every ten minutes, ranging from underwater reefs to exotic nightscapes.

Despite the aristocratic atmosphere, the club housed a good handful of shady patrons. Number nine aside, there were spice dealers and illegal traders, there were men who preyed on younger women, and then there were teens that somehow snuck inside for a chance to find a rich and desperate hookup.

Harry didn't pay them any heed. His eyes were on the woman sitting at a lone table, her perfectly manicured nails caressing the edge of the counter. Few pure-bloods came to this tavern, but just enough to give the tavern a bit of posh and credibility. Pure-bloods preferred to stay inside their manors and toast themselves silly in the privacy of their own wards. If they did go out in public, this would be their ideal retreat.

It was _her_ ideal retreat and she was a very prominent name among pure-bloods.

Estella Zabini, victim number nine.

And what a beauty she was. Of course, her beauty was her weapon. Any man, straight or gay, would become a blubbering idiot with one look at her. Even Harry, who saw her as his next victim, still found it difficult to breathe around her.

Her skin was a deep mocha color, flawless and smooth. Her blue-black hair, which usually fell past her shoulders in tamed waves, was pinned up to show her long neck. Her face was beyond perfect, sculptured sharply to show each curve and juncture. The perfect lips and the _eyes…_ which were pale in color, contrasted sharply with her dark skin.

Beautiful, but so twistedly deranged. Harry had to remind himself why such beauty had to die.

Many Muggles would name her a Black Widow, preying on men but for the sole purpose of their gold and fortune. For a long while, she stayed at seven husbands, seven victims. Just this past year, she married her eighth and he died soon after. All her husbands died of mysterious causes and yet, Estella Zabini was still walking free, her killings an enormous joke among the pure-blood society.

They thought it amusing, to see how many men she could lure and snare. Her many connections to the powerful pure-bloods made her untouchable to the law. She was an innocent witch, after all. Blessed with her good looks but cursed with her luck.

Such bullocks.

Ms. Zabini was on the hunt again, looking for her ninth husband, her ninth victim. It was rather fitting. She was _his_ ninth victim and he was _her_ ninth victim.

He stood up and approached her, making sure to keep his stance casual and his face hidden in the shadows. He did wear a glamour of a notorious pure-blood back in America, but he'd rather not draw any unwanted attention on himself.

She looked up, catching his eye and positively _glowed._ "Andrew, I'm so happy you made it."

Harry offered her a tight smile, sitting down with his back to the other patrons. "I must admit, while you look lovely this evening, I had my doubts for coming," he confessed, losing his British accent. They both looked down at the gold band on his left ring finger.

He had started stalking Estella a few weeks after her eighth husband's death. He _let_ her notice him a few days after that, when he memorized her routine.

She liked to come to this tavern and scope her next victim. When she first approached him, under the guise of Andrew Raile, a pure-blood in America, he tried to act taken aback at her beauty but also guarded. After all, he told her he was married but was having a rough patch. He was visiting Britain for a time and didn't know the surname Zabini.

Obviously, Estella thought he would be an easy victim. He was oblivious to her eight husbands and he was having troubles with his marriage. He also had money, he casually hinted at, and he was rather taken with Britain and its rich culture.

Estella reached over and laid her hand on top of his. "Is that why you took so long to take up my invitation? Are you finally getting along with your wife?" Her words were hopeful that were the case, but she pitched her voice lower and her eyes all but shimmered provocatively.

Her fingernail traced the thin skin on his wrist in lazy and seductive patterns.

Harry flushed despite himself. He wasn't a virgin and he was more than confident around both men and women. But Estella Zabini was a level above it all. She wore a low cut dress, showing enough to amplify her breasts but not so much to cause outrage among the conservative pure-bloods. Her lips, now parted in a teasing smile, were glossy and full, making Harry wonder what they would look like wrapped around his—

He moved his hand away from her, snarling at himself for letting her manipulate him. He often got these visions, these petty fantasies. He believed Estella had an ability to feed her victims images of provocative sexual scenes and fantasies.

If he were any other man, he would salivate at the images and grow hard enough to submit. It was the same trap she snared on eight men before him. Zabini despised men. He could feel her acidic amusement. She thought men were all pigs and easily manipulated by a few suggestive words and innuendos.

That may be the case for some men, but did that truly give her the right to lead men along in false security before killing them? Was a man's lust really damning enough to warrant their demise?

One of her husbands died from a snakebite. Another died from choking on his breakfast (in bed of course). One had a heart attack. One fell off his broom. One died from flesh-eating slugs. One ventured in one of the Zabini's charmed closets and couldn't find his way out before starving to death. One took a slicing hex across his chest from an unnamed vengeful ex-lover.

Harry's _favorite_ death, however, was the explosion that killed and dismembered her late husband.

It was the latter death that Estella would face herself. It would be flashy and it would be publicized. Harry much rather preferred his silent killings, but it couldn't be avoided.

"I- I suppose we're on speaking terms," Harry intentionally stuttered in answer to her question, avoiding her eyes and acting as if her vision had truly affected him. "But…"

She chuckled merrily, leaning closer. "But what? Come now, you can tell me." She laid a hand on his arm, leaning forward and giving him an eyeful of perfectly shaped breasts. Her dark areolas peeked out, only a teaser to what else laid beneath her dress.

"When I'm with you, she is in the back of my mind, a mere afterthought…" Harry trailed off, staring boldly at her breasts and then at her lips. He placed a hand on her hip, his fingers digging in her thin dress. "Please," he croaked, sending waves of acceptance in her direction. The manipulated Empathy would only enforce her belief that she had successfully ensnared him. "Let me please you…" he growled, his hand sliding up her leg and between the warm and smooth thighs.

Estella threw back her head and gave a breathless laugh, her hand urging Harry's fingers closer to her folds.

"My, my, aren't we bold tonight?"

Harry gave a wolfish grin, hiding his revulsion as he stuck his finger inside her.

She wouldn't feel the shrunken device that would explode on command. Normally the size of a human palm, Harry had shrunken it to nothing but a microscopic chip that hid underneath his fingernail. The device was well known to dragon keepers, who used them to stun dragons. On humans, it was large enough to cause an explosion but it had a small proximity.

No one else would be killed, only a few bumps and bruises.

He leaned closer, dislodging the device inside her as he gave her moist folds a teasing stroke. "I…" he pulled away, noticing her eyes were not lust-hazed like a normal woman's would be. They were sharp and they were half-lidded in hopes to fool him that she really was enjoying the treatment. "I don't know if I should do this," he confessed, pulling his hand away.

It was tempting to put his finger in a glass of alcohol and sterilize her from his body.

_Disgusting. Vile._

Estella leaned in and suckled his neck. Harry stiffened. He didn't want his DNA anywhere _near_ the crime scene. He had already taken care of his fingerprints. And he'd cast a sticking charm for his hair, but one could never be too careful. Anything that came off his person could point in his direction.

Casually, he leaned away. "I don't know what came over me, Ms. Zabini, I apologize. I'm usually not that… bold as you say." He pressed a hand to his face, willing it to burn. "And in public no less."

She tsked, unwilling to let it drop. "You're attracted to me. I'm attracted to you. Let's be adults about this, Andrew." Her leg brushed against his underneath the table. "We're in a dark secluded corner of the tavern. No one would be the wisest."

Yes, no one _would_ be the wisest.

Another vision formed in his head, this time, her well-manicured nails were doing _very_ pleasurable things to his body, to his cock. Harry let a groan escape past his lips and he stood shakily from his chair. He wanted her to feel confident that her visions were affecting him. Ashamedly, they did cause a slight twitch.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely. "I- lets… go someplace private."

"My home," Estella agreed.

Before she stood, Harry braced a hand on the table and leaned toward her. He preferred showing his victims the identity of their avenger, only because he was denied the same consideration. For a moment, he was tempted to show her his true face. Of course, he thought better of it. This was a public kill, he could not risk them seeing Harry Potter.

"I need to use the restroom first."

He watched as her playful gaze looked down, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of looking at his groin. Besides, there would be nothing there that would convey his excitement, simply because _he_ wasn't excited.

Although, his excitement suddenly sprang to life as he walked toward the restrooms and the exit. His breathing grew deep and steady as he took out his wand. Well, not his wand, exactly, but it was his for the night. As he passed into the threshold that would ensure his exit, Harry lifted his wand and flicked it once.

The muffler on the wand made the reactions slower, but he only needed to cast two spells.

The first flick was to enlarge the device inside Estella to normal size. Behind him, he could hear her strangled gasp, drawing attention from the other patrons. Harry flicked his wand once more just as he walked out the front door of the tavern.

Seconds later, a loud and bright explosion erupted from inside.

Harry blinked, stumbling from the force of it, but continued on down the street.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you asked if Riddle would sense the Doppelgänger. No, he would not. Imagine a Doppelgänger as a dark artifact. Most of them don't 'leak' Dark Magic. However, it did take a lot of Dark Magic to create and it would be noticeable on Harry (who created it and used so much Dark Magic).

**Chapter Five**

Blaise slammed open the solid oak doors, not caring about the wards that may or may not have been constructed to keep out unwelcomed visitors. He had visited these set of chambers once before, with his… his mother, but never by himself. He was too intimidated by the man to seek out his company.

On occasions, he heard Draco Malfoy brag about meeting the man for dueling lessons, but Blaise always thought Draco was a spoiled brat who liked to talk big.

Now though, his grief and anger fueled his courage to confront Lord Riddle by his lonesome.

"I want him dead!" Blaise snarled, stopping short in front of the massive desk. "No, I want _him_ for myself. I want to make him suffer like my mother suffered!"

The man behind the desk continued writing, as if Blaise's entrance was nothing out of the ordinary.

The Zabini Heir crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling very small when the silence stretched and the Dark Lord's magic turned a tad icy. Taking advantage of the situation, Blaise unabashedly studied his Lord.

About a year ago, an elderly Tom Riddle turned into a younger, far more handsome man. It had taken his followers a long while to get accustomed to the change as they tried to figure out how Lord Riddle managed to find the fountain of youth.

Riddle looked to be in his late thirties, early forties. He was in his prime once again, his face free of wrinkles and his sharp facial planes sharply cut and sculptured. When surrounded by his allies and followers, Tom Riddle dropped his elderly persona. Perhaps the most striking change was the man's eyes. The brown bled way to crimson, unnerving even the boldest of followers.

Blaise was confident enough with himself to admit their Lord was attractive, a _powerful_ attractive. Many of the witches, pleased with his new appearance, tried even harder to make his eyes linger on them. He never seemed interested, though. Riddle only gave them polite attention like he gave the rest of his loyal allies.

"What has your mother gotten herself into this time, Mr. Zabini? Has she found a new prey that has deemed himself untamable?" Lord Riddle murmured, his feathered quill moving across the parchment with quick and clean precision.

The younger wizard glanced angrily to the side, trying to hold his tongue in check. As his eyes roamed the opposite side of Riddle's expansive room, he caught sight of a large portrait, the woman inside a familiar sight.

She was Merope Gaunt, Tom Riddle's mother. She was an ugly thing, Blaise remembered, and the portrait only reminded him of her ugliness. She died a few years ago and everyone knew her death had been a harsh blow to their Lord. Her death had turned him a bit colder, a bit crueler. He had doted on her and treated her like royalty.

Blaise had never interacted with her; neither had most of Lord Riddle's allies. Merope tended to enjoy her own company and the company of her son.

Her crooked eyes peered at Blaise, her mouth etching down in a frown.

"I guess you could say that," Blaise managed to spit out in answer to the man's sarcastic inquiry. "She's dead." A sick pleasure twisted his belly when the quill finally stopped scratching. He turned back to his Lord, finding it hard to keep eye contact with the crimson eyes now directed on him. " _Custos_ got to her. He painted the damn walls with her…" he trailed off, his voice cracking.

Tom Riddle straightened his shoulders, though his cold face showed nothing. " _Custos?_ Are you certain it was him?"

Blaise trembled. "He painted the walls with her! No right-minded wizard or witch would…" he shook his head, unable to continue again. He had to stay strong. He knew the game his mother played was dangerous, but he also thought she was smarter, slyer than her prey.

"I was not called," Lord Riddle pointed out, motioning to the glass sphere that turned red whenever the Ministry needed their Minister. "If the Aurors are not there—"

"I knew my mother was going to the tavern tonight. I arrived only minutes after it happened and came directly to you. There were no Aurors yet because they're too slow!" Blaise pointed an accusing finger at the man. "You _promised_ to protect us, to protect my mother!"

"That is quite enough."

Suddenly, the room turned cold and Blaise stiffened in horror. What he'd just said finally registered and it was not good. His grief and anger slid way to terror and he dropped to the ground, feeling a slight pressure around his throat. Invisible snake scales slid around his neck, squeezing warningly.

Trying to ignore the suffocating presence around his throat, he bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry, My Lord."

"Your mother lured men and then killed them for a few pieces of gold, Mr. Zabini. Does it truly surprise you that she got caught in her own web?" Riddle stood from his chair, the globe on his desk suddenly turning red. "I cannot hold your mother's hand. Nor can I protect her from her own stupidity. I will try to keep the details surrounding your mother's death as vague as possible for the papers."

The man's tall frame stood over Blaise. A very sinister expression twisted the man's feature, casting him in an unholy light. The elegant and charming Dark Lord was gone, and in his place was a cruel predator. Blaise stared, wide-eyed, never seeing such a side to Tom Riddle. It suddenly unnerved him.

The invisible snake tightened around his throat once more before disappearing. The dark, seductive magic forced Blaise on his feet and he stumbled ungracefully. Fortunately, the abrupt motioned veiled his shaking knees.

"Go home and make arrangements. You are the head of the Blaise family now." Riddle smiled warmly, the viciousness gone from both his magic and expression. "Try to get some rest."

A hand descended on Blaise's shoulder, a heavy weight as it pushed him toward the exit. Blaise was speechless. What could he say without trigging the Dark Lord's fury once more? He didn't want to experience that magic again, nor did he want to see the aristocratic expression twisted into something unholy.

" _Custos_ …" Blaise trailed off, his voice a bit high in pitch. Slowly, he glanced back at the Dark Lord, watching as the man fastened his Ministry robes and reapplied his elderly glamour. "May I have him, My Lord? Please?"

Riddle suddenly turned, his teeth bared into a cruel smile. Blaise took a quick step backward, his pulse racing in fear.

" _Custos_ is _mine_."

. . **Dreams** . .

"Bloody… _hell_ …"

"Bloody is an understatement, Black," Auror Grey patronized, flicking her blonde ponytail over her shoulder.

Kingsley watched his Aurors, if only giving himself an excuse to look away from the pink-colored gore. Further down, near the exit and entrance of the tavern, Minister Riddle entered, the late hour doing nothing to hinder those sharp eyes. "Welcome, Minister Riddle," Kingsley greeted solemnly. "As you can see, we just arrived to… survey the crime scene."

"Butcher house," someone murmured in correction.

The Unspeakables roamed the empty tavern, brushing every inch for forensic leads. Black lights lit the ends of their wands, looking mainly near the table where the explosion originated. It would be difficult identifying fingerprints and hair belonging to their serial killer and not from past patrons.

Kingsley didn't know all their tricks on finding forensic evidence, but he did know they were able to distinguish the length of time the hairs and fingerprints were left behind.

The Head Auror tried not to look at the body parts strewn across the floor as he turned back to assess his Aurors.

"What was his aim this time?" An Auror Investigator demanded the quiet room. "Is this even _Custos_? Explosions aren't his MO. He likes blades and he didn't even leave his signature behind."

"Signature?" Minister Riddle inquired dryly. "I was unaware we gave _Custos_ claim to any signature."

"The smile, of course," Sirius Black replied haughtily, leaning against a table superiorly. To rescind his suave image, his heel stepped on a piece of flesh and he gave a strangled cry, jumping away from the mess and tiptoeing back to the center of the room.

"All of _Custos'_ victims died with a smile on their face. We thought he altered them postmortem, but our theory wasn't solid."

Kingsley glanced at the head of the body, not enough features savable to identify it as Estella Zabini. Her mouth was blown apart, showing an endless void of open jaw. The eye sockets were also visible as the eyes did not survive the heat of the blast.

"I don't think he would have been able to alter her expression. Not only would he have known if her face would have stayed intact, but he wouldn't have waited until after the explosion to alter her. In front of a room of witnesses, he wouldn't have done something so foolish." Kingsley put his hands on his hips, turning around to survey the tavern. "It was public and it was an explosion. I think we're looking at a copycat. This killer wants attention, whereas _Custos_ prefers privacy with his victims."

"It definitely throws us for a loop," Riddle, of course, spoke up. "But this is most definitely _Custos._ "

"Of course it is," Auror Grey agreed. She had a foolish grin on her face as she survived the men around her. "His victim was Estella Zabini," she said, as if that explained everything.

The men all paused in their scrutiny of the tavern and looked at her blankly. Kingsley noted Riddle was the exception. The Minister had his hand cupped to his jaw in quiet contemplation, his eyes staring unseeingly at Zabini.

Grey huffed, her cheeks turning red. "Men." She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded her chin toward the severed body. " _Custos_ sees himself as a type of last-resort justice. His victims never get prosecuted for their crimes. He would likely leave them alone if they were prosecuted and sent to Azkaban for their term. But his past victims were either acquitted or the charges just suddenly dropped."

Here, she glanced at Riddle with a cloud of uncertainty.

"Go on, Auror Grey," Kingsley coaxed gently.

Her pale eyes turned toward her boss and she gave a thankful nod. " _Custos_ obviously sees something wrong with our legal system. Politicians walk away from their crimes, powerful business wizards and witches, and… in the case of Estella, pure-bloods seem to have their own blanket of protection. She's killed _eight_ men, Auror Shacklebolt, enough to label her a serial killer. No one seems to remember that. It's always hushed up as an accident. But who the hell has eight husbands that die from mysterious accidents? And Zabini remains free, sitting back and collecting her late husbands' fortunes? It's not justice."

The attention on her didn't seem to bother her one bit. Kingsley considered her himself, hearing a lot of the press' words in her own speech. The public thought much like Auror Grey.

After hearing her passionate tirade, Kingsley felt doubt about his own opinion of _Custos._ There was a very unsettling realization that their justice system _was_ corrupt. Most politicians _did_ seem to walk away, as did pure-bloods and other influential men and women.

Kingsley did his best to make arrests and bring in corrupt criminals. Nevertheless, he was powerless to what happened in court with the Wizengamot and their lawyers.

"Even so, it does not excuse his method of justice, it does not excuse the murders. Even criminals deserve rights, not automatic death sentences by a man acting as a god," Kingsley reasoned.

Auror Grey threw her head in agitation. "I know that, sir. _Custos'_ killings make him a wanted criminal. But that doesn't mean I can't relate to his _reasoning_ for targeting his victims."

Around him, Kingsley noticed most of the Auror Investigators were quiet, mulling over Grey's outspoken opinion. Some would quickly disagree with Grey, but others would contemplate and silently side with her. Nonchalantly, Kingsley glanced at the Minister from the corner of his eye.

Should Riddle take insult to Grey for daring to speak against his Ministry and how corrupt it was?

Kingsley knew Riddle was intolerant toward _Custos_ for causing such uproar in his Ministry. With Estella Zabini's death, the public would turn further against _Custos_ or more passionate that he was doing the right thing. They would then point out that, yes, the Ministry and its justice system was corrupt and _Custos_ was in the right.

"So…" Black shrugged. "We know _why Custos_ is targeting his past victims and why he targeted Zabini. Why didn't he use his dagger this time around? Why the explosion that may have harmed innocent bystanders?"

"All the other patrons are unharmed," an Auror announced as he came back inside from interviewing the witnesses. "Only a few cuts and bruises, but otherwise, they're perfectly coherent."

Suddenly, for the first time that night, Riddle offered his input to the current situation. "Albert Kinley, _Custos'_ eighth victim, had his genitals cut off, a direct correlation to his crimes of pedophilia. Estella Zabini's last husband died from an explosion."

"Potion explosion?" a sandy-haired Auror questioned.

Riddle turned to look at him blankly. "No. It was reported that he activated a malfunctioned insert up his anus," the Minister responded professionally, as if he were simply retelling the events of the Goblin War.

Sirius Black choked on his saliva, his face a crimson red. He wasn't the only one in the tavern that shifted uncomfortably. "A bloody dildo killed him?" He bowed his head in submission when Riddle stared, a disproving stare that calmly told Sirius such language was not professional.

Kingsley shook his head. He placed a hand to his forehead as he felt a headache growing behind his eyes. "Was such information made public? Or are we looking at a serial killer who has inside information at the Ministry?"

He did not remember hearing about the last Zabini husband. If he had read it, he would have likely remembered.

"Oh, it was made public," Auror Grey spoke up, a light to her eyes. "If one wished to read past the advertisements in the _Daily Prophet,_ they would have found it on the last page. I remember clearly."

That only narrowed it down to the general public who read the _Daily Prophet_ from cover to back. "And…" Kingsley removed his hand from his forehead and inched closer to the Unspeakables hovering over the severed body. "What have you been able to distinguish as the cause of death?"

He hoped the cause of death did not mirror her late husband's demise. But Kingsley had his suspicions that _Custos_ wouldn't find any other death justifiable.

A hooded Unspeakable held up a circular device the size of a human palm. The wizard probed the object with his gloved index finger. "A simple stunning and heating device used for dragons, sir. Dragon keepers use this to pacify dragons. It is not normally harmful to humans, unless, of course, it is implanted in the human body when it is activated."

Kingsley dreaded asking, but he knew he must. "And was it implanted in Ms. Zabini?"

The Unspeakable looked at his companion and the two shared a look Kingsley would have never been able to distinguish. "Originally, it was reduced in size, to fit inside the cavity. But we have confirmed it was implanted vaginally, sir."

A few snickers leaked across the room and Kingsley whirled around, a fierce scowl on his face. "This is not a _joke_. I will not have my men disgrace this Ministry by not being able to control themselves. We have a _very_ dangerous criminal on our hands. Let's keep our heads out of the gutter and focus on the task at hand." He gave one long pointed look at a group of young Auror Investigators standing near the doors. "Go find the owner of the tavern, gentlemen. Bring him in here."

They hurried from their post, not inclined to anger their boss any more than necessary.

"The implanted device clearly represents the way her last husband was killed, but it could also represent Zabini's crimes. Like Albert Kinley, whose genitals were cut off from his sexual act with children, Zabini used her sexual prowess to lure men." Auror Grey tilted her head in contemplation. "I don't think we would know his line of thought unless we catch him ourselves and ask."

Before Kingsley could reply, the door of the tavern opened and the owner walked inside. The man was a bit older, perhaps Riddle's age, with slicked back grey hair and an unsettled expression on his face.

"I want this cleaned up," the man ordered, gesturing toward the dismembered body on the floor. "Certainly you realize it's bad for business."

Kingsley walked over to the owner and towered over the man. Riddle aside, Kingsley had a height advantage in the Ministry. "What's bad for business is a killing in the first place," he spoke harshly, causing the owner to start. "What kind of security do you have here, Mr.—?"

"Bones," the owner replied tartly. He glanced at Riddle, awed for a moment, before assessing the rest of the Aurors. "I didn't think about serial killers blowing up my patrons when I put together the security, Auror Shacklebolt. I thought of unruly teenagers that would get themselves in trouble and in turn, me. There is an Age Line at the entrance and that's it. There are also wards over the glasses to prevent anyone from slipping an illegal potion inside."

"How old does one have to be to cross the Age Line, Mr. Bones?" Black wondered.

Bones cast Sirius a look of disdain. "I don't allow anyone younger than twenty-years-old to enter."

" _Custos_ is twenty or older," Kingsley murmured to himself, though it wasn't much of a lead. They had already known he was an adult. "I figure _Custos_ is young, a radical with young ideals. He is also physically fit, not many elderly men can attack their opponents with as much zeal as he can."

Auror Grey shifted. "How young are you talking, boss?"

Kingsley glanced at Riddle once again. "You seem rather quiet tonight, Minister. Was Estella Zabini a good friend of yours?" he poked gently, irritated at the man's stubbornness. Perhaps Riddle was still upset about Harry Potter proving his innocence and didn't want to offer any more insight because he couldn't stand being wrong.

Riddle slowly turned to look at him, his expression clearly stating he was unaffected by Kingsley's words. "Auror Grey asked you a question, Auror Shacklebolt. What is your estimation of _Custos'_ age?"

"Late twenties, early thirties," Kingsley guessed logically.

Before he could continue their line of discussion, Bones flicked his wand toward the walls, murmuring an incantation. "Before I was interrupted, I was going to tell you the walls record the ongoings of the tavern. I have up to forty-eight hours of recorded material."

Everyone winced as the lights dimmed and the tavern filled with memories of people sitting in chairs, standing next to the bar, and entering and exiting the tavern. Sirius stumbled back as a transparent woman pushed past him and headed toward the bar. The sound of muffled conversations and music sounded and Kingsley had to confess that he was extremely impressed. He approached a table where two women were talking and laughing, their images only slightly translucent and colorless.

"This was only ten minutes before the explosion," Bones interjected, looking pleased with himself. "As you can see, over there, Lady Zabini is sitting by herself."

And too true, Zabini was sitting at the table the Unspeakables were currently surrounding. It was disheartening, seeing a living Zabini sitting next to her dismembered body on the floor. Kingsley turned back to the room of patrons, searching for _Custos._

The adrenaline caused his pulse to race. Certainly, it couldn't be _this_ easy to catch their serial killer? Before he could assess the patrons for _Custos_ , Riddle beat him to it.

"Over there, in the corner opposite of Lady Zabini."

Kingsley pivoted, his eyes jumping person to person before they landed on the lone figure sitting confidently in his chair. He squinted, noticing the handsome features and the dark blond hair.

"Who is he?!" he barked to his men. He didn't recognize him!

Was _Custos_ simply this arrogant to walk up to his victim in a crowded room? Or was he using a damn glamour?

_Custos_ , his eyes calculating Zabini, suddenly stood up. As the killer made his way closer to the Aurors standing in the middle of the room, Kingsley took a step back, though he knew it was just a memory. He found it hard to believe someone could move with such grace and lethal swagger. Next to him, Kingsley noticed Riddle's eyes narrow and a dark smile crossed the man's lips. He didn't want to think on the Minister's reaction, too many conspiracies would get in the way.

As _Custos_ passed them and closed in on Zabini, Kingsley found himself surprised by the welcoming glow she greeted him with.

_She knew him. He was her next target and she was his next victim._

Kingsley shook his head, watching the two interact and listening to their conversation. _Custos_ came off a struggling man, apparently identified as an Andrew Raile with an American accent. He seemed bashful, almost flustered at Zabini's attention. Kingsley found it hard to see any deceit underneath the act, which only meant _Custos_ was a good actor. It made him uncomfortable with the realization that they were hunting someone with such intelligence.

And then the two closed in on each other and Kingsley _knew_ where _Custos'_ hands were just then.

"Ick!" Sirius exclaimed, but did nothing to prevent himself from leaning forward and looking underneath the table to get a closer look.

Kingsley curled a hand around the back of his neck and forced his head back up. He paid his Auror no heed as he took in Minister Riddle. The elderly wizard stood especially close to the memory of _Custos,_ his eyes intent and dangerous. Riddle leaned forward, his nose and mouth inches from _Custos._ Kingsley squinted, trying to distinguish what the hell the man was doing, but couldn't make anything out before the scene changed once again.

_Custos_ stood up from the table, looking flustered and giddy as he reassured Lady Zabini that he would return after using the loo. Kingsley stood back as the man passed him once again and watched as the wizard took out his wand and gave a merry flick.

Luckily, the tavern owner, Bones, quickly canceled the surveillance charm as soon as the explosion sounded.

"He used magic to activate the device… at a crime scene!" Auror Wes exclaimed, gesturing toward the place where the memory of _Custos_ stood moments ago. "He's never done that before."

"He had a muffler on his wand," Kingsley replied tensely before looking at Bones. "Mr. Bones, if you would please step back outside, we will straighten things out in here before we leave." He watched through lowered lids as the owner shuffled back outside. "A muffler will distort the magical signature of the wand."

"They do," an Unspeakable agreed, suddenly rushing over to the location _Custos_ had used magic. "But we have the necessary tools to piece the magical threads back together."

He waved his wand, and suddenly, the air around him turned thick and visible. There, in front of him, was a cloud of glittery-gold dust. The Unspeakable waved his wand over the cloud, caging it in a conjured glass bubble.

Kingsley watched, assuming the Unspeakable had trapped _Custos'_ magical signature inside. "Are you certain you can pick up the signature from such a small charm?" He wouldn't get his hopes up.

The cloaked Unspeakable nodded, shaking the bubble and causing the yellow gold to sprinkle around the globe. "The process is incredibly vital and we may lose the magical properties to the point of ruin, but chances are we will be able to do it. It will take some time, but I believe we can put together a traceable signature. If the wand has been registered, we'll be able to cross-check who owns the wand."

"We can also pick apart the device and see if the magic connects to the wand," another Unspeakable informed. He stood up from his position by Lady Zabini's body. "There is no physical evidence near the table. The handprints on the device and on the table were made of synthetic skin. The fingerprints are artificial."

Kingsley pressed his lips together, his optimism sinking only slightly. If the Unspeakables couldn't piece together the magical signature, then they would be back to square one. "Wand mufflers cannot be made by a common wizard. They are purchased on the black market."

"We are not dealing with a _common_ wizard, Auror Shacklebolt," Riddle interrupted snidely. "We're dealing with a highly intelligent and lethal serial killer. Are you certain he couldn't construct his own muffler, hmm?"

"I am," Kingsley rebutted, holding his ground. "We will be going to Knockturn Alley and subtly asking around about the muffler and the purchaser. Also, the device implanted in Lady Zabini is not a top-seller in Diagon Alley. I assume Dragon Keepers will be helpful in our quest in finding out where _Custos_ got his hands on one."

Auror Grey nodded sharply, pleased with his intuition. "And Andrew Raile? _Custos_ glamoured himself as Mr. Raile to lure a false sense of security in Mrs. Zabini. I don't know who he is, but we can track him down and question him. It may be a dead end but it may also prove worthwhile." She gestured toward Black. "I'll take Black with me."

"Good." Kingsley approached the table where Lady Zabini's remains were strewn. "Was there anything else you found informative?" He didn't like working with Unspeakables, the lot of them were too intelligent and enigmatic for their own good. Though, he wouldn't deny they were damned useful.

"He was leaking Dark Magic," one of them murmured, calmly collecting the various pieces of Zabini's body. "Even after he's gone, there is still Dark Magic that lingers where he sat."

That caught the attention of various Aurors and especially the Minister. "Ah _huh,_ I thought so," Sirius Black boasted. "It reinforces my theory that _Custos_ is a Slytherin." He ignored the scathing looks sent his way as he grinned ruthlessly at Riddle.

"Not quite," the Unspeakable murmured with amusement. "This kind of Dark Magic was thick and incredibly potent, but it doesn't necessarily mean _Custos_ is a regular practitioner of the Dark Arts. It simply means he was experiencing the after-effects of performing too much Dark Magic in a short amount of time. The wizard or witch who uses an abundance of Dark Arts can give off noticeable symptoms to a trained eye."

"Can it be traced?" Kingsley inquired quickly, possibilities running through his mind. Next to him, Riddle narrowed his eyes in serious contemplation.

The Unspeakable looked at him. Underneath his hood, Kingsley could have sworn he spotted the irritated frown. "Of course not, sir, it's simply the after-effects. Like a wizard brewing potions, a trained nose would be able to smell the ingredients he was using. With our tracking spells, we can sense the Dark Magic here, but it is impossible to identify a signature from it."

_Ah…_ of course. "Well?" he pressed. "What can cause such strong aftershocks?"

"Anything, Auror Shacklebolt," Riddle answered for the Unspeakable in exasperation. "One can cast the _Imperio_ constantly until they reek of the Dark. I'm afraid you're sniffing around a dead-end."

Kingsley turned to the Minister, eyeing the tall wizard warily. Riddle seemed rather snarky this evening; then again, they were all tired from the late hour. "Pack your things, let's get out of here. We'll reconfigure tomorrow morning and follow up with what clues we have."

The Aurors began filling out of the tavern, though some stayed behind to guard the entrance until the Unspeakables were finished cleaning and collecting. Kingsley watched them gather the remains of Estella Zabini, feeling his gut wrench in disgust. Someone would need to contact her family and inform them of what transpired tonight. He glanced side-long at the Minister, watching the elderly wizard suspiciously.

"You know who he is," Kingsley murmured softly. "The way you watched him… you knew. You _do_ know."

Riddle turned away from Estella's severed corpse and smiled twistedly. "Your investigation is not with me, Kingsley. I am not your enemy; we are hunting the same man."

"But for the same purpose?" he bit back, knowing full well he was stepping over his boundaries.

The Minister shook his head sadly. "We've already been over this, Auror." Tom Riddle pushed off from the table and slowly walked away. "Estella was a good friend. Now, more than ever, I want _Custos_ caught. If I have to take matters into my own hands, I will certainly do so." He paused, turning to look at Kingsley over his shoulder. "Please don't confuse my independence and passion for deceit. We will catch him, Kingsley. Keep up the good work."

Kingsley crossed his arms over his chest, watching the man glide from the tavern. He sighed, rubbing his hand across his face.

A high, pure-blood witch had just been killed. The Wizarding World would be in uproar about this. _Custos_ was directly challenging Riddle and the Ministry, claiming he wasn't afraid to incriminate pure-bloods like the justice system. It was a bold move. The public would love him and the pure-bloods just found a reason to get involved in this case.

Aside from the Ministry, _Custos_ was going to have to look out for the high society of the Wizarding World.

Then again, Kingsley wondered if that just excited _Custos_ more.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Warning/Note}: Another kill. And maybe some grammar mistakes.

**6\. Chapter Six**

" _Tell me, woman."_

" _Please, I don't know!"_

_Harry closed his eyes tightly as he heard skin striking skin. Even through the thin wall, he could hear his mother's pained moan. Their captors did this on purpose. When they felt especially vindictive, they moved the family in three separate rooms where they could hear the other being beaten and tortured. Often times, Harry was in too much pain to pay attention to what was happening in the room next to him, but today, he could clearly hear his mother's frantic denials._

" _After days of neglect and physical torture, one would think you'd be smart enough to answer our questions. At least it would save your family the torture, no?"_

_Another hand struck Lily and Harry moaned under his breath, feeling her muffled emotions of desperation and horror._

" _I don't have what you're looking for!" Lily cried out, somehow keeping her voice steady through her fright. "You have the wrong person."_

" _Remus Lupin seems to think otherwise."_

_Harry's eyes snapped open and he heard his father screaming in denial on the other side of Lily's room. For days, Harry slept on the cold ground, licking his wounds and listening to his stomach as it ate itself. The days he received human contact were filled with harsh blows to his face and body. At times, they grew creative and used magic to torture. His arm was dislocated and his jaw didn't seem to line up._

_All the while, he never got a good look at his captors. They charmed their faces, causing their features to blur and spin._

_But… if what he said was true… Remus Lupin!_

" _Isn't that right, Lupin?" the tormentor growled._

" _She has it," a voice agreed._

_The voice didn't hold its usual warmth, in fact, it sounded desperate, harsh. But it_ was _a voice Harry was incredibly familiar with. After all, Remus worked with his mother, and he was good friends with the Potter family. Harry clearly identified the man behind that voice. Remus was now the first and only identity Harry knew of in this hell. There was something that made him feel incredibly vulnerable when he couldn't see his tormentors. When he looked at them, he was exposed and they weren't._

_No victim should be without the face and the identity of their attacker._

" _You're in a talkative mood tonight, I see." The tormentor commented after Lily's continued silence. "Well, that can be remedied. Perhaps the screams of your son and husband can get your tongue loose."_

_It was all the warning Harry had before his door was slammed open. He stared numbly at the large body that pushed itself inside. The meaty fist pulled back and collided with Harry's cheekbone. A_ crack _sounded through the room and Harry grunted, refusing to cry out, refusing to put his mother through more hell than necessary._

_It was when the stranger's wand touched his skin did he scream bloody murder._

Harry inhaled deeply, waking up with a start, his fingers and lips twitching uncontrollably. He cried breathlessly, his face contorting as he curled himself into a fetal position. The white room calmed his racing pulse, reminding him that he was no longer in the hands of his enemies.

With blind desperation, he reached out and snatched the white picture frame off the nightstand. He cradled the photograph of his parents to his chest and rocked back and forth. The dreams, those memories, had become almost nonexistent. It was surprising to have one with such startling accurateness.

This one had been particularly vivid, especially for it being so early in their captivity. It was when the torture picked up, the needles began, and his Empathy increased in potency. The memories were more concrete, more haunting.

Suddenly, a loud laugh thundered across the room and Harry scrambled up, dropping the picture frame on the ground. The glass shattered, but as soon as the frame branched off in veiny shards, it magically melded back together as if it were never broken.

With cat-like grace, he danced away from his bed and got down in a defensive stance. When his mind cleared from sleep, he realized the voices were coming outside his bedroom. He straightened, slowly approaching the panel in the wall. As he pressed his hand against the white tile, the wall moved aside, revealing the inside of Harry Potter's closet.

Harry ducked into the closet, moving the perfectly arranged clothing aside in order to merge fully into his pseudo bedroom. As soon as he was in the dark room, he morphed into his Animagus form and trotted over to the doorway. He could already identify the voices as the Doppelgänger and Ron Weasley.

The two were arguing over the latest Quidditch game between Ballycastle Bats and Puddlemere United.

Upon closer inspection, Harry was surprised to see Ginny and Hermione crowded near the entryway as well. It suddenly dawned on Harry that it was seven o'clock in the evening. Considering it was Friday, Harry assumed the four were going to the pub.

It was strange, watching them.

His tail flicked as he scrutinized the four interacting. Such innocence, such naivety. It had been over a week since Harry created the Doppelgänger. Since then, and since Estella Zabini's death, Harry hadn't stepped foot out in public as Harry Potter. He let his Doppelgänger parade around, and when the copy was asleep, Harry transferred its memories inside his own mind to see what he had missed.

And he hadn't missed much. Beside the occasional information from Sirius regarding the _Custos_ case, Harry Potter was just busy with work and friends.

_Friends._

Haunted green eyes watched as the four figures snickered at one another before exiting the flat. Harry sprinted across the kitchen and leaped on top the counter. He was able to watch the four climb down the steps and into the night-life of Diagon Alley. It was strange watching them, watching himself with them.

That's what could have been if he didn't have the potent memories of his parents' death and the suffocating gift of Empathy.

When he created the Doppelgänger, he made sure to construct a copy of himself that mirrored his personality as much as possible. But without all the memories of his parents' death, and without his Empathy, he realized the Doppelgänger was noticeably different. At least Harry noticed a difference.

It was a bit disappointing that Hermione hadn't grown suspicious yet or confronted him about it. He understood Ron, Sirius, and Ginny had been waiting for the day that Harry would go back to _normal_. They believed it finally had happened. Hermione surely wouldn't believe it was that simple… would she?

Trying not to let the sudden onslaught of isolation affect him, Harry leaped off the counter and sauntered back to the bedroom.

While the Doppelgänger busied himself with mundane activities this past week, Harry was able to be productive during the day.

So far, the Aurors were still sniffing after leads from Estella's murder. Pity they were all leads Harry had intentionally laid out for them. The more they dug into the leads, the further they got from the name Harry Potter and the closer they got to Cormac McLaggen. And after viewing the Doppelgänger's memories, Harry was able to see Riddle keeping his distance at the Ministry.

Either Riddle was sulking or he was scheming.

Harry was willing to bet Riddle was scheming. It was the Minister's move. Either the man would continue to pursue Harry or he wound find a new suspect. Considering the man was stubborn, Riddle would hunt after Harry until he had black and white proof that he was innocent.

The only evidence that would be good enough would be evidence Riddle dug up himself. Harry was biding his time. The Doppelgänger would most likely be in trouble, if Riddle really was a serious threat.

Harry shrugged back into his human form, cracking his spine and scratching the hair behind his ear. His fingers began patting his thigh involuntarily.

Despite tonight's setback, his tics and his obsessive compulsion disorder had improved considerably this past week. While he had to continue putting things back where they belonged after his Doppelgänger went to work, he _was_ able to function a lot more clearly now. He wondered if it was from the decrease of stress and anxiety.

Reaching for the false drawer of his dresser, he pulled away the paneling. He grabbed the dagger inside the box, staring at his reflection in the blade. His mouth curled as he stared unseeingly at himself.

He would definitely need a larger blade for his victim. A butcher knife would do nicely, or more appropriate, a cleaver knife.

Harry chuckled merrily, pressing his lips against the cold blade and closing his eyes. His long week of roaming free had been good for him. He had several new targets scoped out. It was truly amazing how many corrupted souls walked the streets of Diagon Alley as if they were actually _normal._

For the past week, Harry made a habit of sitting on the patio of a quaint café and sipping Earl Grey tea. As he sat there, his face relaxed, he opened his Empath ability and felt the passing men, women, and children.

There were corrupt souls everywhere.

But ever since his parents' death, he came to terms that _everyone_ was a bit corrupt. Some killed out of self-defense, some cheated on their spouses, some were clinical liars, some were drug users, and some had unclean thoughts but never acted on them. But no matter how small their crimes were, their souls still tarnished and Harry could feel and taste the degree of their corruptness.

It was easy to bypass these souls and zero in on the truly corrupt.

There weren't many. As the truly evil passed him during those mornings, he watched them closely, memorizing their physical appearance and their feelings. He only ever followed and observed when he came across someone so damaged.

Someone like Potion Master Erik Slore.

Harry removed his lips from the dagger and attached it to his holster.

Erik Slore was a very prominent Potions Master in the black market. Gifted with his hands, and his pockets heavy with gold, Slore had a reputation among the inhibitors of Knockturn Alley. He made deals with slippery men and provided illegal ingredients to those who had no knowledge on how to handle such toxic plants and venom. He brewed potions that would poison his clients' victims and he never blinked an eye unless his payment suffered.

All that was unethical, but it hadn't been _enough_. It hadn't explained why Harry had vomited in the nearest rubbish bin when he had first come in contact with the man. How could someone feel and taste so unclean? So… filthy?

The pieces had come together after Harry observed further.

The day Harry found out what special ingredients Slore used, was the same day he concluded he would need to act quicker than usual. Master Erik Slore was a brilliant Potions Master, but he was also a successful experimenter. The man took special interest in using pieces of the human body as ingredients to dabble with potions that had yet to be invented.

Not simple corpses at the Wizarding Morgue, but bodies that had yet to grow cold.

Harry twirled the grey cloak before fastening it over his dark shirt and pants. The material fell to his knees, allowing for easier movement, while giving him enough coverage. He pulled the hood up over his features before crouching and securing the laces around his boots. They were a size too small than he usually wore, just in case his footprints were left unaware at a crime scene.

Nonetheless, they didn't hinder him in anyway.

His fingers caressed the leather of his boots before his body contorted into that of a black cat. He glanced at the clock in the kitchen. It was close to the scheduled time he wanted to keep. Eight o'clock was his ideal time to hunt tonight, only because McLaggen would most likely find it difficult to give a decent alibi.

As he made his way toward the cat=door of his flat, he felt no guilt or fear. Instead, wicked excitement and a sense of duty fueled him.

. . **Dreams** . .

"Oh Merlin, please, please let me go!"

Her screams wouldn't and couldn't be heard.

He dragged her by the hair and toward the stone table. It wasn't vital, but Erik didn't want to cause any damage to this specimen unless intended. The last one, despite the preserving spells, had passed away before he could fully remove the spleen.

This one, while female and not the particular brand he liked to work with, was a full adult and had a healthy body. He had already run blood tests and she turned out to be just as healthy on the inside.

She screamed from the top of her lungs as he pulled her from the refrigerated unit. Erik sighed, holding her at arm's length as his fingers curled in her hair. He surveyed her, ignoring the tears and snot cascading down her face. Should he continue on his research with the various blood diseases or should he consider looking at the female reproductive system?

This female specimen had no history of childbearing; her uterus was most likely ripe and healthy.

Male breeds were far more ideal over females. It was rare his interests led him to collect females, perhaps he should take advantage of it and prod the ovaries or uterus.

"Contemplating on whether to use her heart or her liver?" a voice murmured softly in question.

Both Erik and the female turned motionless at the voice. The specimen suddenly struggled more furiously, trying to turn around and plead to the stranger for help. Her short arms, cut off at the elbows and cauterized to stop infection, waved back and forth with desperation. Erik had cut them off during her first night here.

The hands were a very valuable ingredient, as was the brachial artery.

Despite the invasion in his lab, Erick wondered if this man was a supporter of his work. "Her spleen or uterus, actually. Though, I'm leaning toward the latter."

Erik released the female as a boot swiped at his face. The Potions Master stumbled backward, surprised and dismayed as he watched the specimen scramble away. Looking around the potion's lab, but didn't find what he was searching for.

He was certain he had placed it by the cauldron!

"Looking for this?" the man, certainly a man, inquired, twirling Erik's wand between his leather-clad fingers. "Amusing, really, how much wizards depend on it and how little they take care of it." He cocked his head underneath the deep hood.

Anger suddenly replaced his calm intrigue. "What do you want?" Erik demanded, his fingers curling in on themselves as another held his wand. "Is it a potion you desire? You don't have enough gold, that must be it." He glanced toward the female ingredient, watching as the specimen dug at the sealed door with its stubby arms. "Why don't you let me finish what I was about to do and then we can sit down and discuss terms."

"I only have one potion I need, and it requires an ingredient only you can provide."

Erik perked up. He should have known. Only those that knew him were supporters of his masterpieces. This man was no different. "What ingredient?"

Beneath the deep hood, the stranger gave a toothy smile. "You."

Alarm surged through the Potions Master as he quickly reached for the powder on the shelf next to him. With deadly accuracy, he threw it at the cloaked figure and the glass vial shattered on the floor. The powdery substance exploded in a cloud of white, the particles intended to render a victim unconscious upon inhalation.

Coughing, Erik hurriedly covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the voices.

"Please don't hurt me," the female begged pathetically.

"I won't hurt you," the man reassured her, his harsh tone softening. "You're free to leave, so long as you give me at least twenty minutes with him before you run to the Ministry."

Erik gave a muffled howl, charging at place where he believed the intruder to be standing. As he crossed the cloud of powder and into the clear air, he stopped short, staring at door. The specimen was no longer huddled in front of it and the man was nowhere in sight. Erik whirled around when he heard a _whish_ across the potions lab. He watched through narrowed eyes as the cloud of powder slowly dissipated, leaving an empty and silent room in its wake.

Not willing to take his chances, Erik tried the handle to the door, but found it stuck.

"You don't understand!" Erik cried out to the empty room. His eyes flickered around the lab to every nook and cranny, but couldn't spy the man. His pulse raced as he realized he was facing a lethal threat. "I experiment to _help_ others. Those specimens are for the greater good, they would be lending themselves for a worthy cause!"

He gave one last tug at the door, licking his lips in desperation. He couldn't Apparate without a wand and his wandless magic was spotty at best.

Turning his heel, he hurried toward the knives. "You can't seriously think yourself a savior!" Erik scoffed at the hidden predator. "There are _no_ heroes. You'll get caught eventually. Or better yet, you'll slip one day and turn into the very same thing you hunt! At least I know what I'm doing is to help others. People like you just don't understand."

As soon as he reached for the handle of the knife, a leather-clad hand curled around his wrist. It had come out from nowhere! Erik cried out as his arm forcibly twisted behind his back. He was swung around and the first thing he noticed was the unnatural green eyes.

With the hood now lowered, Erik was able to see that the male was nothing but a child. He stared. He would have thought his assailant would have been someone he had known. Instead, it was a young boy in his late teens, perhaps early twenties. A subconscious part of him noted that the boy was handsome and most definitely healthy.

He would make a very decent ingredient. The boy's eyes… there must be a genetic secret as to why they were so vivid.

"Funny," the boy purred into his face. "They usually fight back."

And then the boy sent three sharp jabs to the side of Erik's neck with the side of his hand. His eyes rolled back into his skull as pain paralyzed him and rendered him boneless. He collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

It was only seconds that blackness covered his vision, for when he blinked away the distortion, he was aware of the boy standing over him. Pain seared his body, and nausea, so thick, churned his stomach. A headache formed behind his eyes as he groaned in misery, turning on his side and vomiting.

"I'm sure you are aware that I just hit your vagus nerve. Many consider it a cliché and overdramatized 'pressure point', but to you and me, we know exactly what happens when that particular nerve gets pressure applied to it." He was whispering softly, paying no heed to Erik as he moaned on the ground. "I don't think you'll be in much of a mood to struggle, even _if_ you can get your motor skills to listen to you properly."

Erik spluttered, his cheek pressed flat against the cold ground. He was useless with the nausea and the pain.

The boy was an expert. It took a skilled fighter and a man knowledgeable of the human body to strike someone and render them as useless as Erik currently was.

But if the boy was so skilled, why hadn't he used his knowledge of the human anatomy to kill Erik? Why keep him conscious?

Through teary eyes, he watched as the boy sauntered gracefully over to the large freezer. He gave a dull chuckle as he watched the wizard shuffle partially inside, his shoulders tensing as he peered at the gathered ingredients. The boy moved away, revealing the inside of the stock room.

A proud glow warmed Erik as he observed the large vials sitting on the shelves and on the floor. Many parts of the human anatomy were submerged in preserving liquid, all coming from countless of different specimens. His particular favorites were the hearts, still whole and hearty.

"You're a sick bastard," the boy spat, his beautiful green eyes bright with revulsion. He slammed the freezer shut, apparently too weak-stomached to admire the grandiose ingredients.

"To- to each h-his own," Erik slurred out, the strike to his vagus nerve causing his speech to suffer.

Using his hands, Erik struggled to push himself off the floor. However, before he could get far, a shoe pressed into his chest, forcing him back down to the ground. He grunted, struggling to breathe.

The stranger then crouched above him, watching in malicious amusement. "I am Harry Potter, by the way." The boy reached over to the knives and withdrew the cleaver knife. "I only think it's fair that you know me as well as I know you, Erik."

Erik struggled as soon as he saw the cleaver knife curled in the man's leather fist. He threw his fist up toward the boy, intending to hit his face. As soon as his hand came within distance, the boy swung the cleaver knife and chopped his limb off at the forearm.

Pain shot up and down his arm and Erik screamed shrilly as blood coated his face. A hard and skilled fist then punched him on the right side of his torso, right above his liver. His screaming stopped, only because the wind was knocked out of him, making it impossible to breathe past the pain in his arm and now his liver.

Then the pain grew unbearable in his abdomen, making the pain from his arm seem almost bearable.

He huffed in short cries, unable to get enough air to scream. Distantly, he was aware of the bastard throwing his severed hand into a nearby cauldron.

"You finally get a taste for what your victims felt," the boy murmured. "I only wish I would have had more time with you." He offered a coy smile, his handsome features giving off an almost boyish innocence. "I'm sure your _ingredient_ won't give me the full twenty minutes I asked for."

With that, he pitched the cleaver forward and Erik pressed his eyes closed, readying himself for the unimaginable pain. Before the knife fell, he cried out, "You're just like me!"

. . **& Darkness** . .

Kingsley looked down at results of the magical signature, blinking at the silent Unspeakable standing motionlessly on the other side of his desk.

"You're one-hundred percent certain on these results? And Ollivander has confirmed this?"

Instead of replying, the Unspeakable only tilted his head in confirmation. Kingsley chuckled breathlessly and straightened as he considered the results. It had taken over a week, but now they had an identifiable magical signature.

"We should call Minister Riddle. We've had a break-through on the investigation." Just as he was about to call the Minister, Auror Grey leaped inside the room, her cheeks flushed with excitement and adrenaline.

"There was another murder, sir. This one's a blood-bath." She paused and a thin smile stretched her lips. "And we have our first witness."

. . **Collide . .**

Well this was certainly interesting.

Harry leaped off one roof and onto the next. A twisted smile warped his lips as he watched his Doppelgänger walk home from the pub, oblivious. The copy was completely unaware of the dark shadow stalking him, but Harry was more than aware. He scoffed in amusement, his eyes slanted as he watched the shadow follow the Doppelgänger.

As they crossed another district in Diagon Alley, the shadow moved quicker. Shops became less and less and the number of flats increased. The number of wizards and witches wandering the streets at this hour was thin. No one would take notice of the scuffle about to transpire.

Draped in his own shadows, Harry considered the shadowy figure. He knew, without a doubt, that it was Riddle. There were only three people that felt like empty voids to his Empathy ability, and one of those three were dead.

He didn't think Severus Snape would be stalking Harry Potter on a Friday night, waiting until he exited the pub.

And it made everything so perfect. How many people had been at the pub tonight? How many of those had seen Harry Potter sit at a table, surrounded by his three mates during the time of Erik Slore's murder? Even Riddle had witnessed Harry Potter at the pub. When he got his call tonight at the Ministry, he would have even more evidence that Harry was not _Custos._

Everything was perfect.

Just perfect.

Moreover, Riddle would soon face more evidence that proved he was wrong this entire time.

Harry stood at the edge of the roof, peering over but making sure he stayed unseen. He knew what Riddle had planned. The man was a Master Legilimens. There was no way in hell he would not use that talent if it meant discovering _Custos_ ' identity. Still, it was a bit disappointing that Riddle would sink to such forceful methods.

Harry would have thought the Minister was a man of careful deliberation and sly execution.

It just proved that Harry had gotten under Riddle's skin. And that, in itself, was a very large victory.

Underneath him, Riddle closed the distance to the Doppelgänger. The Harry-copy gave a startled cry as he was dragged into the alleyway between two buildings. The Doppelgänger struggled and tried to go for his wand, perhaps another sign that this was not _Custos._

_Custos_ attacked physically before he attacked magically.

Harry crouched at the edge of the roof, watching the proceedings through narrowed eyes. He knew the man was Riddle, and yet, the appearance was way off, perhaps _forty years off_. Harry had seen photographs of Tom Riddle when he was younger. The Minister in the alleyway below mirrored his younger self and it intrigued Harry completely.

Not only was the physical appearance off, but the aura around the man was shockingly different. Minister Riddle was known for being a powerful wizard and there were times one could feel a powerful aura surrounding the man. But from Harry's position, he could sense the heaviness that encompassed the older man.

It was the same heaviness Albus Dumbledore had often carried that made ordinary wizards reverent.

"Interesting," Harry purred, watching the couple below.

It would seem as if Harry had underestimated Riddle. Moreover, it seemed as if Riddle was hiding his own fun secrets. Perhaps it was time Harry _did_ keep an eye on Minister Riddle's duties when he was off the clock.

Below, Riddle encircled the Doppelgänger's waist and slammed him against the wall face first. The taller wizard flattened the Doppelgänger further against the wall with his chest and leaned closer, the act almost shockingly… sensual.

Harry tsked at the scene. He may have felt a bit jealous of his Doppelgänger earlier, for having been so _normal._ But if Harry had never walked down the path of _Custos_ , he realized he would actually be this vulnerable and open for attack. He would rely too much on his magic and not enough on the physical art of combat.

Riddle grabbed the copy's chin and forced the Doppelgänger to look at him.

Even from Harry's position, he would have liked to think he had felt the powerful waves of Legilimency. The Doppelgänger grimaced, his knees weakening as Riddle entered his mind, searching and searching for proof that would lead him to the conclusion that Harry Potter was _Custos._

Harry remained crouched as he watched.

A part of him was breathless, hoping Riddle wouldn't find anything in the Doppelgänger's mind that would give them away. For that reason entirely, he decided he would step in when Riddle would have enough time to see the Doppelgänger's innocence, but not enough time to search further.

Who knew what Riddle could find?

"I don't know whether to be insulted or flattered that you would think I was someone as inconspicuous as Harry Potter." He let his voice soften enough to make his true voice unrecognizable.

His pulse raced with something akin to pleasure and adrenaline as Riddle turned to face him. The Minister dropped the Doppelgänger on the ground as if there was nothing else as important in this game but _Custos._

Harry crouched with his back to the moon and in the shadowed alcove of the roof. With his hood also drawn, Harry was confident the man would see nothing identifiable. Nonetheless, his muscles tensed in preparation just in case Riddle decided to strike.

The man was currently standing above the fallen Doppelgänger, his body completely still and motionless. His face was upturned, the moon's rays bathing his features and drawing attention to the widening smile.

There was nothing said between the two as they continued to eye the other. Harry could feel a similar smile stretching his lips as he looked down at the man. Though, Riddle's toothy grin made him look like a satisfied cat that just caught dinner in his exposed claws. The Doppelgänger breathing unevenly at his feet also made Riddle appear like a guilty child caught in the act.

Harry reached out a leather-clad hand toward the man in mock engagement. "The last time I saw you, Riddle, I was sure you had half a foot in your grave. Tell me, how does one go from pushing his eighties to discovering the fountain of youth?" Even in the dimness, Harry suddenly realized the man's eyes were red.

That certainly couldn't be good.

Riddle made a purr-like noise in his throat as he tilted his head. "We all have our secrets."

"And some are able to keep them better than others," Harry replied cheekily. He rocked to the balls of his heels and stood. "I wonder," he murmured softly, noticing how the man continued to stay stiff. In all ways, the man was a bloody snake, coiled before striking dangerously fast. Harry was ready. "What other secrets do you possess, Minister?"

Crimson eyes narrowed pleasantly. "If you come to me willingly, I will be honored to share those secrets with you."

The wind played teasingly with the edge of Harry's cloak. He clutched at it, securing it more firmly around his torso. Would Riddle notice the blood staining across it? " _Ah_ , and where would the fun be in that? I could just find out those secrets myself and keep my own."

Riddle didn't respond, he only continued to gaze keenly up at Harry.

"As you waste your time going after Harry Potter, I'll be more productive. You're still a few steps behind me, Minster. Do try to keep up."

Riddle's smile darkened and true anger showed on his face. The air grew thicker and cooler as the man's magic blossomed cruelly. "You'll regret those words, child."

Harry only chuckled, pleased he could get such a reaction out of the man. "Tell me, did Erik Slore help get back your dashing looks?" Riddle blinked, caught off-guard with the offhanded comment about the Potions Master. "You may want to check up on your favorite Potions Master. The Aurors should already be there."

And Riddle struck out.

The magic, wandless and nonverbal, was suffocating. It grabbed Harry around the torso with possessive glee and tugged out Harry's wand. If the damned stick couldn't be tracked, Harry wouldn't have cared to leave it in Riddle's possession. Only, it _could_ be tracked, and he couldn't let Riddle know his identity so easily, especially after taunting the man so much.

He also needed it to Apparate quickly out of here.

He growled, leaping off the roof and diving off the ledge. Riddle, taken aback at the action, wasn't able to pull the wand toward him quick enough. As Harry curled his body into a flip, he grabbed his wand in midair and Apparated away.

Riddle's annoyed hiss was the last thing he heard before traveling through time and space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Note} I don't know if I've already explained this in past chapters, but I tried to hint at it heavily in this chapter. Harry likes showing his true face and revealing his true name to his victims. He was cursed with weeks of torture by people he never saw and never knew. Despite the pain he went through, he hated feeling vulnerable the most. He didn't like the fact that his tormentors knew him and he didn't know them.
> 
> Giving his identity to his victims is his way of showing a semblance of remorse/mercy for them. Is it stupid of him to do so? Of course, but he would have it no other way. That's why he had considered showing himself to Zabini before he left the tavern. But that situation was a bit different than his other kills. He didn't toy with her like the others, she didn't feel pain (explosion is rather quick), and it was in public (not the intimate one-on-one that Harry experienced at the hands of his own captors).
> 
> Another quick explanation (I hate long author notes): What was up with Riddle's actions from last chapter when he watched Custos' memory? Many of you wondered if he identified Custos as Harry. But I think one reviewer, Izzoso, was correct in her/his review. And I quote: "I don't think he saw the way Custos walked and immediately thought of Harry, no. I think he just liked what he saw in his prey."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the memory later in this chapter: I addressed the memory Severus Snape as "Snape" and the Severus Snape viewing the memory as "Severus".

**Chapter Seven**

"I told you, he was wearing a hood. I didn't see anything."

Kingsley sighed in agitation, bowing his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Behind him, one of his Aurors snickered at his misfortune. Ashley Locke, the twenty-five-year-old witch, proved to be as much as a dead-end as the whole case in general. He had allowed her two days at St. Mungos before asking her to come to the Ministry for some questions regarding the incident.

From what Auror Grey had reported earlier, Ashley had shown up at the Ministry the day of Erik Slore's murder, waving her stub-like arms. Reports say they had been cut off at the elbows by Slore, but luckily, Healers had been able to attach and grow a new set of arms, hands included.

Unfortunately, Kingsley was around too many men who had been injured in the field. There would be a noticeable distinction between her replacement arms and the rest of her body. She was currently wearing a leather jacket and wrapped bandages around her hands, successfully veiling the newly attached appendages.

Even if she had received new arms, the scars, both mental and physical, would always be there.

Still, she was a minx. The witch was sitting unhappily against her chair, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her dark, heavily applied makeup gave the impression that she hadn't outgrown her rebel days. The smoky eyes ogled him with an air of lazy boredom and stubborn defiance.

She even offered Minister Riddle an unabashed glower.

"Look, you're wasting your time," Ashley insisted. "On my way home from work, I was kidnapped by a man with a fetish for potions. I was held against my will as he cut off my arms. I _watched_ as he stripped the skin apart to pull out the veins and arteries. After I served my purpose, he threw me in a refrigerator with a ridiculous amount of human body parts. I knew what that meant. He wasn't through with me."

As she recounted the days of her captivity, her crimson lips pursed and her tough-act shattered for just a moment.

Three nights ago, Kingsley arrived at the potions lab in Knockturn Alley. For the first time since he started his training as an Auror, Kingsley had nearly vomited across the floor. Though, he hadn't been the only one who had been sick after seeing Erik Slore's stockroom.

The stockroom aside, _Custos_ hadn't been merciful with his kill and only added to the gore.

Like Estella Zabini, the kill had been messy, but _this_ was far bloodier.

Blood had coated the floors, dripping down into the sewage drain. A large black cauldron sat in the center of the room, filled strategically with pieces of Slore's body. An Unspeakable had boldly reached in the cauldron and held up the Erik's severed head, revealing the eerie smile across his lips— _Custos'_ signature.

And if the storage room hadn't been enough proof of Erik Slore's repulsive hobby, they had found heaps upon heaps of hand-written journals filled with potion recipes that incorporated particular parts of the human anatomy.

"Are you certain—"

She cut him off. "That night… the night Slore dragged me out of the refrigerated storage room…" Ashley paused, her voice straining. "I thought I was gonna die." She looked down to hide her vulnerability. "Slore dragged me toward the same table he had cut off my arms. He pulled me by the scalp and I tried to fight back, but it seemed pointless without any arms."

Kingsley frowned, knowing it was causing her a great amount of trauma to recollect her ordeal. But he needed to know anything he could about _Custos._ Ashley was their first witness.

"Then _Custos_ came in." She sniffed, looking up, recovering. "He asked Slore if he planned on taking my heart or my liver."

" _Custos_ asked that?" Kingsley inquired, bemused.

Ashley scoffed. "He was being sarcastic, obviously. But Slore answered anyway. He said he intended to take my uterus." The girl gave a humorless laugh. "And then _Custos_ kicked his arse. Royally." She shrugged. "I didn't see much. Slore threw a vial of something dusty to defend himself. _Custos_ then released me, asking me to wait twenty minutes before I went to the Ministry."

"Twenty minutes for what?" Kingsley pressed.

She blinked at him, a wry smile across her face. "He wanted twenty minutes alone with Slore. I heard you found his body cut in pieces inside his own bloody cauldron. I hope that's true, because I couldn't imagine any other death as satisfying."

"And did you?" Minister Riddle cut in, surprisingly staying silent until now. The man leaned against the far wall, near the open door that led to the Aurors at their desks. Riddle hadn't spoken much during the questions and his sour mood from a few days ago still seemed present. "Did you wait twenty minutes before reporting to the Ministry?"

Brunette curls bounced as Ashley shook her head. "No." She looked directly at Kingsley, challenging him. "I waited thirty minutes just to make sure he was finished before I went to the Ministry."

Kingsley stared, unable to find any fault in her attitude.

She had been held captive by a madman and had experienced things no person should ever experience. It was even hard for Kingsley to find fault in what _Custos_ had done. And yet, here he was, still insistent on finding their serial killer. _Custos_ could impress as many people as he liked with his 'good deeds'. But call it what you'd like, it was still murder and Kingsley would have _Custos_ face the very system he believed was corrupt.

He wouldn't, he couldn't stop until the serial killer was in custody.

"He saved me," she said, speaking strongly. "At first, I thought maybe he would kill me. But he put a hand on my head and I immediately felt safe with him, like all my fears and horrors were washed away. He made me feel safe."

Riddle stiffened only marginally, but Kingsley was able to catch the movement because the man had been so motionless beforehand. He raised an eyebrow at the Minister, silently asking if he had something to add, but the man ignored him.

Kingsley turned his attention back on what Ashley had just said, trying to read between the lines and see what had caught Riddle's attention.

He came up empty-handed, only understanding that Ashley wouldn't be forthcoming. She viewed _Custos_ as her hero, as did many citizens of the Wizarding World. Her feelings of security and idolization would make it difficult to find evidence to convict _Custos._

"Will you let us view your memories of the night of Erik Slore's murder?" Kingsley inquired, already knowing the answer.

"No." Ashley's bandaged hands curled ever-so slightly. "I give you my word I didn't see anything identifiable on _Custos._ I already have to relive those memories of captivity with you, I will not produce a corporeal image of them and have everyone view them."

Kingsley nodded, standing up. "Then we have nothing more to discuss, Ms. Locke. I am thankful you were able to speak with us today."

She just smirked in response, declining offers to escort her out of the Department. Kingsley watched her go, slowly walking out of the solitary room and into the Auror Department. He placed his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall to gather his bearings.

"Erik Slore was not tried or convicted of any crimes," Auror Grey suddenly spoke up from her desk. She tugged lightly on her loose ponytail before trudging up to the floating evidence board. She tapped a picture of Estella Zabini. "There weren't even speculations that Slore was doing anything illegal. With all _Custos'_ other victims, they were at least brought to trial. With Zabini and Slore, we're beginning to see an unsettling realization."

The Aurors sat back in their chairs in order to give their full attention to the discussion. Kingsley gave Auror Grey a firm nod, encouraging her to continue. From the corner of his eye, he noted Minister Riddle lingering in the shadows of the room.

" _Custos_ is able to pick criminals off from the street," Erin Grey summed up. "Somehow, he has the ability to pick his victims without any solid evidence of their wrongdoings."

"Not necessarily," Auror Rowan argued, standing from his chair. "Estella Zabini may not have been tried or convicted of her crimes of killing her husbands, but there was a large portion of the population who had an inkling to her crimes, you included, Auror Grey. As for Erik Slore, there may have been whispers of his doings in Knockturn Alley. We cannot automatically assume _Custos_ has a knack for picking out his targets."

Auror Grey pressed her lips together. "And we cannot automatically eliminate that theory, Auror Rowan."

Sensing the tension in the room, Kingsley stepped forward to intervene before it grew out-of-hand. "We will most definitely keep that in mind, Auror Grey. As for the time being, we can review what we've learned so far." He motioned toward the results of the magical signature that was left behind at the crime scene. "Even if there was a muffler on the wand used at Lady Zabini's murder, the Unspeakables were able to pinpoint a very small portion of the magical signature. The results gave us two wands that fit the signature, Cormac McLaggen and Robert Whistleton.

"Considering Robert Whistleton is twice as old as the late Albus Dumbledore, we can eliminate him from our scope for now. Cormac McLaggen, on the other hand, is our prime suspect. He fits the profile of _Custos._ He's in a position of power during the day, and in particular, he's a lawyer that works closely with Hermione Granger. He's intelligent, overconfident, and he has Muggle connections from his Half-blood status. He's physically fit and could have learned hand-to-hand combating skills through his ties with the Muggle world."

Kingsley motioned toward Black and Rowan. "Did you find out anything about the dragon device _Custos_ used on Estella Zabini?"

Black raised his eyebrows. "No, the Dragon Keepers gave vague answers as to where an average wizard could get his hands on one. They said it is possible someone could construct one on their own. Otherwise, they aren't closely guarded at their keep. Someone could have easily slipped in and stolen one. Those devices aren't in high demand… imagine that."

Looking toward Riddle's general direction, Kingsley frowned. If they didn't have other leads, Kingsley was afraid he wouldn't be able to snatch McLaggen due to the lack of evidence.

A weak magical signature at the crime scene wouldn't be nearly enough to hold up in front of the Wizengamot.

"And the wand muffler?" Kingsley asked, somewhat hesitant to hear the answer.

Grey perked up, a predatory smile stretching her lips. "I was able to locate a shop in Knockturn Alley that sold wand mufflers. The owner said wand mufflers are especially of interest to him. He told me he remembered selling one to a young man a day prior to the murder." Grey shuffled closer to Kingsley. "He said this young man came in twenty minutes past one o'clock, the same hour McLaggen leaves the Ministry to take his lunch. The owner's description of this customer resembles McLaggen, but we can't make any assumptions. So, I went to the small restaurant McLaggen takes his lunches at every day, and the young waitress verified that she remembers seeing Cormac leaving early the same day the wand muffler was purchased."

His pulse slowed before adrenaline sped it up. "It's not solid proof, but it is definitely enough to bring McLaggen in for questioning. If he has nothing to hide, perhaps he will yield to Truth Serum. Otherwise, he will need to give solid alibies to his whereabouts the nights of the murders."

He then looked back at Riddle, noticing the man was barely impressed. "Minister Riddle, would you like to be present for the interrogation?" Personally, Kingsley was looking forward to the eventual exchange between Riddle and _Custos_. "McLaggen is an alpha male; certainly he would become threatened around another male of his—

"McLaggen is not an alpha male," Riddle whispered darkly. " _Custos_ is an alpha." The Minister then exited the Auror Department, obviously finding that his attention was needed elsewhere.

"What crawled up his arse and died?" Sirius muttered.

**. . Dreams . .**

Harry sat cross-legged on top the counter, flipping through the various documents.

He was currently situated in one of the abandoned houses in Crest Valley, the town that housed the infamous Tom Marvolo Riddle. In fact, Riddle's manor was only a three-minute walk away. He'd been watching Tom Riddle for the past few days now. Usually in his Animagus form, sitting on one of the branches of the pine trees, he would watch the traffic go in and out of Riddle's expansive manor.

And there was a lot of it, foot traffic.

The men and women he had identified were pure-bloods or very prominent figures in society. It hadn't really surprised him. No, the thing that surprised him the most was that the traffic going _inside_ hardly ever came back out.

Riddle's house must have an unwarded room that guests could use to Floo or Disapparate. Either that, or there was something else that Harry had yet to put his finger on.

There was also a special ward outside Riddle's manor. It denied entrance to some visitors, while others walked right on through as if it were a mere inconvenience. Harry had never seen Riddle himself, but that could mean the man's wards allowed him to Apparate inside.

Still, even when there were guests outside the wards who wanted entry, Riddle was never one of the people to grant entrance. It was always a respected pure-blood or someone Harry couldn't identify. Lucius Malfoy, especially, seemed to be a regular at Riddle's manor.

No matter.

When Harry had seen a redheaded Frenchmen arrive at the manor with a bundle of rolled-up scrolls, he had been immediately interested. The Frenchman had met with Lucius Malfoy at the gates and was allowed access. This had transpired for the last two days, and today, Harry had acted.

Behind him, the redheaded Frenchman was tied up in a chair, his limbs weighed down by the heavy blocks Harry found around the abandoned house. The man stirred, groaning loudly and most likely feeling the effects of Harry's earlier attack.

"Good afternoon, Didier Blanc," Harry sang cheerfully, his back turned on the waking man. "I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up."

The man grunted, his emotions flickering between confusion, surprise, and fright. Really, the redhead was a frail little-thing. It had been easy to gain the upper hand in a physical attack and Didier hadn't even gone for his wand before falling unconscious to the ground.

Harry had taken the liberty of gathering the man's parchments, and more happily, he had discovered the pouch of gold coins. According to these documents, the French were the supplier. The money was for Lucius Malfoy, agent to Tom Riddle.

Harry thought it was only fair to dig into the Minister's business. After all, Riddle had attacked his Doppelgänger in an alleyway and had used Legilimency on it. Riddle must have then _Obliviated_ the Doppelgänger, as Harry saw no recollection of the incident inside his copy's mind. It was a bold and obtrusive move on Riddle's part. Harry had every right to invade the Minister's personal life.

Besides Riddle appearing years younger than his Minister counterpart, Harry knew there was more to the wizard. He had always imagined Riddle being a dirty politician underneath all those sugary smiles and phony conversations; he just never knew he would discover something _this_ incriminating.

Imagine what else he'd find if he investigated someone who was free to pass Riddle's wards freely. Didier Blanc was carrying this convicting information and he was still treated like an outsider, forced to wait until Lucius Bloody Malfoy came to fetch him from the front gates.

_Tsk tsk, Riddle. Try to protect your assets more carefully._

"Come now, Mr. Blanc, don't be shy."

Harry closed the documents, twisting on his arse in order to face the man. The small redhead was sitting prim and proper against the high-backed chair and his silk tie was being used as a blindfold. Nonetheless, Harry still wore his deep hooded cloak, not taking any chances.

"You may call me _Custos_ if you wish to address me." Didier stiffened and Harry laughed pleasantly, narrowing his eyes to study the man more carefully. "Do all Frenchmen know of _Custos_ , Didier?" He hadn't thought _Custos_ had gone past the ears of local Brits. They didn't like involving other Ministries with their problems unless absolutely necessary.

"No. I don't live in France anymore; I'm simply a representative between Britain and France." Didier then paled drastically when he replied more thoroughly than intended.

"Ah, yes. I hope you don't mind if I took the liberty of giving you something to drink while you were unconscious. Veritaserum to be exact." Harry looked down at the flask in his fist.

With a leather-clad thumb, he played with the lip, musing that he needed to brew some more. It _was_ particularly useful.

"You- you…" Blanc reared against his restraints and began to whip his head back and forth in attempt to throw off his blindfold. When he realized it was impossible to worm his way out, he slouched against the chair in defeat. "Are you going to kill me?"

Harry traced his lips with the cool steel of the flask, watching the man in delight. He had never taken a hostage before, but he realized it was almost as fun as killing the scum that walked this world. "No I'm not going to kill you," he replied coolly. "Unless, of course, you have committed an immoral crime…" Harry teased.

Blanc had a relatively clean conscious. Harry didn't get ill around him; in fact, it was almost surprising how clean the man was considering what kind of deed he was developing with Malfoy and Riddle. Then again, the man _had_ admitted that he was a simple representative between France and Britain.

A messenger didn't necessarily get his hands dirty.

Thinking of his victims, Harry wondered why he felt a small bit of uncertainty when it came to Slore. His other kills had been either charged with crimes or tried. They were then let go by the justice system or the charges had been dropped. His prey were always wizards or witches who had cheated the justice system and walked free, able to repeat their crimes repeatedly.

Erik Slore had never been brought to the attention of the Ministry, the Aurors especially. Yet Harry had killed him anyway. He had killed a man who might have been treated fairly by the Ministry and sentenced for his crimes.

Granted, if Erik hadn't been stopped, then he would have killed another innocent that night. Harry had started killing in the first place because he wanted to show the Ministry that they had done wrong in letting those men and women walk free. Just like they had let Remus Lupin walk away from his involvement with James' and Lily's death.

He was after men and women who committed brutal acts. Most importantly he was after men and women who walked free from the life-sentencing of Azkaban.

But… what if he came across another individual like Erik Slore? Whose soul was so dark and tainted that it made Harry vomit? Surely there were other monsters out there that were just as skilled at hiding their crimes as the Potions Master. The Aurors wouldn't have a clue about him and they wouldn't have the chance to bring the criminal to the courtroom.

Perhaps Harry didn't have to kill these individuals, but leave them incapacitated and hail the Aurors? It was an idea, but it was also risky. There were a lot of things that could go wrong with that plan.

"No! I swear I haven't killed anyone or—"

Harry dropped the flask on the ground, startling Blanc into silence. "I know that, fool. I told you I'm not going to kill you." He frowned, his earlier enjoyment now gone. "What _I_ want to know is who came up with this plan." He tapped his fingers on the stack of parchments, knowing full well the man couldn't see him. "Who came up with the idea for Muggleborn children to be removed from their homes at a young age, Riddle or the French?"

"Riddle," Blanc muttered through tight lips. "It's a good plan."

"I didn't ask if it was a good plan or not." Harry swung his feet back and forth over the edge of the table. "Are the French funding the construction of new Wizarding orphanages?"

"Yes."

"The French _were_ always pushovers." Harry snorted breathlessly through his nose. "They got a whiff of Riddle's power and decided to put their tail between their knees and go along with his ideals. I'm sure they'll follow in his footsteps and steal Muggleborn children from their homes and fake their deaths."

He pushed the documents away from him, disgusted.

He knew exactly what Riddle eventually aimed for. The Minister wanted complete separation between the Muggle world and the Wizarding world. The documents claimed that Riddle would use the Trace that they put on underage wizards and witches in order to track down Muggleborn children as soon as birth.

At that point, Harry had been unclear what the documents were hinting at.

"Why does Riddle want to fake the children's deaths? Why doesn't he just _Oblivate_ the parents?"

Blanc groaned as he struggled to resist the Truth Serum. Eventually, he gave in. "The _Obliviate_ leaves too many loose-ends. There are many networks of Muggles who know when a family is expecting a child. If we _Obliviate_ only the parents, it will be suspicious to the others when the family claims they never had a child. Faking the death will give final closure."

"Smart answer, Mr. Blanc," Harry praised dryly.

"Riddle is a very intelligent man." Didier smiled smugly at Harry, even though he couldn't see him. "Why are you even pushing your nose into this business, boy?"

Harry scoffed. "Consider me a concerned investor. Besides the French, Riddle obviously plans to use our taxes to fund this. I have every right to know where my money is going." He reached over to pick up the heavy pouch of money. It was an outrageous amount. "Besides, I know many people would be interested in knowing this."

Hermione would be absolutely furious. She adored her Muggle parents.

Riddle may think he thought of everything, but there were also a great deal of loose-ends in his plans. At least, the documents weren't as detailed as they should have been. From reading, Harry learned the Minister also planned to lower the age of Hogwarts students to eight. His orphanages also seemed lavished with highly educated and experienced handlers and constant supervision.

Though, truthfully, Harry saw it as Riddle raising generations of readied soldiers, being brainwashed at a young age.

And to think, Riddle even planned on adding a few classes at Hogwarts, including the History of Pure-bloods and the most controversial topic— The Dark Arts. Obviously, he was also intending to drop Muggle Studies from the curriculum.

"You wouldn't dare tell the public," Didier warned. "This hasn't been executed yet. Minister Riddle will deny it and—"

"With his signature over everything?" Harry interrupted. "With my memories of your confessions? With a suspicious amount of currency withdrawn from the French Ministry, the same total that matches the amount in this very pouch? Oh, and let's not forget the plan to add Departments to the Ministry, including a Department that will be responsible for taking mere babies from their family and staging their deaths. Yes, Riddle can deny it all he wants, but I have the proof here. Even if he does walk away from this, his reputation will be tarnished completely."

That shut Didier up immediately. But it wasn't long before his trap opened again. "You still won't get away with it. My Lord has friends in powerful places."

Harry snickered, pleased with the man's stubborn defiance. "Is that an attempt to persuade me from leaking this to _The Prophet_? I have a whole Department of Aurors after me and they still haven't identified me. If Riddle somehow found out who I was, I would gladly sacrifice myself to bring this information public." Harry then paused, his grin fading completely. "Did you just address Riddle as _My Lord_?"

"Yes," Didier replied, either from the Veritaserum's influence or out of his own freewill.

It shouldn't have come to a surprise to Harry, and he hated to admit that it _did._

There had been a handful of powerful wizards, all capable of being Lords. Albus Dumbledore had been a Lord-level wizard, and yet, he never requested that they call him 'Lord Dumbledore'. Riddle also had that power. But from what Harry had observed from Riddle's premises these past few days, he also had the followers.

This just became a lot more intricate than before.

Harry leaned back, bracing his arms behind him. If he decided to bring down Minister Riddle, not only was he dealing with a web of sticky politicians, but he was also dabbling in a bloody _cult._

Before knowing Riddle was a Lord _with followers_ , Harry hadn't known what he really wanted to do with this information. Turning in Minister Riddle had sounded appealing, but he hadn't decided completely on that course of action. But _now…_ now he wondered what the hell he got himself into.

"It isn't exactly private knowledge," Blanc smiled, thinking Harry's silence was due to fright. "If anyone approached Lord Riddle and asked to be a part of his circle, he would gladly accept them and coax out their full potential. That's why he has so many followers who would gladly die to protect him. You screwed up royally, didn't you, _Custos_?"

"No," Harry whispered, suddenly grinning widely. "Actually, I think I just stumbled across a larger and more worthwhile prey."

And if he burned his hands playing with fire, then shame on him. It _did_ occur to him that he should back away from all of this now and maybe he could still get away. A Lord could not be so easily underestimated. But Harry truly didn't underestimate Riddle, no, he was just _thrilled_ at having such a powerful predator to challenge.

He leaped off the table, taking the pouch of money with him.

He had a _very_ good idea of how to use this money. And he would even put the donation under the name of Tom Riddle and Lucius Malfoy.

"Wait!" Didier cried, hearing the coins clink together. "You can't—"

"Send Lord Riddle my regards," Harry requested, breathing warmly into Blanc's ear.

**. . & Darkness . .**

"… _to express our outmost gratitude for your heavy sum. Minister Riddle, you and Lucius Malfoy have done a great service in helping the Muggles under our care at Sheltered Hope,"_ Barty Crouch Junior read the letter aloud for the occupants of the room to hear.

Severus eyed the young man, displeased at the humorous grin stretching the boy's lips.

"What does the Sheltered Hope do for Muggles?" Barty wondered gleefully, looking up at a stiff and displeased Lucius Malfoy. "What great service have you done for them, Lucius?"

"I have no idea," Lucius hissed softly, his nostrils pinched with rage. His pale eyes turned slowly to their Lord. "Who—"

"Well _I_ know," Barty continued, well-aware of the tense atmosphere in the room and doing nothing to halt his goading. "The Sheltered Hope is a charity group consisting of _wizards,_ Lucius. These wizards and witches are located in the Muggle world. They raise money from _our_ world and convert it to Muggle currency in order to give it freely to needy Muggles."

Lucius' face paled sourly and he deliberately rotated his body around to peer closely at Barty.

"They have an organization like this?" An offended sneer lifted his lips. He turned back to the Dark Lord, who had remained silent through Barty's provoking. "My Lord, certainly you can disband this organization. To think, Muggles taking _our_ money and using it..."

"But Lucius, you and our Lord clearly donated a _hefty_ sum to their organization. Wouldn't it be strange to suddenly terminate the organization after donating to them?" Barty laughed cruelly, waving the letter in Lucius' face, clearly not fazed at the man's rising temper.

Severus clicked his tongue, not impressed with the younger man's antics.

This was a serious matter. Their Lord had depended on France's incoming gold in order to put forth his plans of building substantial orphanages and creating a new Department within the Ministry. Lucius had alerted their Lord yesterday that Didier Blanc had not arrived to their meeting.

It wasn't until a newly initiated follower had taken notice of the gold trail that they found Didier Blanc.

Lucius had recounted the events to Severus this morning. The blond had accompanied his Lord and followed the trail of gold coins that were placed strategically outside the wards. The trail had ended at an abandoned house not far from the Riddle manor. Inside, they found Didier Blanc, alive and tied to a chair. His pants had been soaked in his own urine and the documents were scattered across a table. The majority of the gold had been stolen, save for what small amount was laid for the trail.

Apparently the Dark Lord had been furious. Severus could only imagine, as Lord Riddle hardly ever let his temper get the best of him.

And then Minister Riddle had received the letter from the charity.

Severus turned his attention on the Dark Lord. The man sat motionlessly behind his desk, his hands cupped against his mouth. His crimson eyes followed Barty's tactics with dark indifference.

"We'll get the gold back easily enough," Lord Riddle murmured quietly, effectively silencing Barty. " _Custos_ was intentionally poking fun at us. He knew we could get the gold back and he knows Lucius' and my views on Muggles."

"You believe it's truly _Custos_ , then?" Lucius inquired, leaning forward and bracing the tip of his cane against the ground. He was being especially reverent toward the Dark Lord today, as he felt Didier Blanc's safety had rested with him. "I assumed _Custos_ was a serial killer, not a jester. What business does he have with politics?"

Riddle's eyelids lowered and a lazy smile stretched. "I have recently taken a personal interest in _Custos_. He wants to return the favor." The Dark Lord didn't look too furious. In fact, he looked downright pleased. "He has shown that he is capable of digging up information regarding my… intentions for the Wizarding world. He will not disclose this to the public."

Severus raised his eyebrows at the self-assured tone. "Can you be so certain?" he inquired doubtfully.

Crimson eyes sparked with enjoyment. "I _can_ be certain, Severus. Despite the potential consequences, _Custos_ and I are engaging in a challenge that will determine the bigger predator." He looked over their heads and into the distance. "Though, I grow displeased with the distance. It's time we close the gap and continue this behind closed doors."

"You mean reveal him?" Barty bounced at the prospect of getting to know the identity of his obsession.

"Possess him," the Dark Lord correct simply. "I will get him under my thumb before he does any more damage."

Severus leaned back against his chair, pondering the Dark Lord's intentions. There had never been anyone who had tested the Dark Lord before. Could it… could it be possible the man was obsessed with _Custos_ just as much as Barty was? Though, their obsession originated for different reasons.

Barty simply idolized _Custos._ Tom Riddle, on the other hand, acknowledged _Custos_ as a worthy ally, an equal in wits. An equal…

Severus wasn't following the _Custos_ case very closely, but he did know the serial killer remained a good distance from the pursuing Aurors _and_ the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord found his match, it would seem. It had only taken the man decades to find it. And to imagine, the Dark Lord had enough anticipation over the prospect of having an equal that he could all but admit it out loud.

"You're considering letting him join your ranks?" Lucius inquired, outraged. "My Lord, with all due respect, he has belittled you and he has even killed a member of our own. In any case, there are many of us who follow you that he would outright refuse to accept. He _hunts_ people like us."

"With the right amount of coaxing, he'll join, although the leash won't be as taunt as you'd find acceptable." The Dark Lord smiled cunningly. "I will protect you, Lucius. There is no need to fear him so much."

Barty snickered and even Severus had to smirk at Lucius' affronted expression.

"I do _not_ fear him, My Lord. He kills like a Muggle. Surely even I could control him."

The Dark Lord straightened his shoulders and his teasing matter grew cold. "Now you are simply being foolish, Lucius. Underestimating an enemy does not suit you. _Custos_ may prefer blades or fists over wands, but that makes him the more dangerous. He is skilled at an art we have no knowledge on." He raised a taunting eyebrow. "He is a master actor and a skilled manipulator. How do you think he was able to fool and bring down Estella Zabini?"

"Do you have any suspicion of his identity?" Barty inquired, butting in before Lucius could respond.

Tom looked over at Severus before offering Barty a dismissive wave of his hand. "I will not disclose his identity until I am absolutely certain."

Barty grabbed the back of Lucius' high-back chair and leaned over, intrigued.

" _You_ haven't figured out his identity yet, My Lord?" At the tense expression crossing the Dark Lord's face, Barty straightened from his slouched position and gave a curt nod. "Not that I could find fault in that, My Lord. _Custos_ relies on his secrecy and being anonymous. Of course he's going to protect it fiercely."

Lucius craned his neck around to offer Barty an exasperated stare. "Our Lord knows perfectly well who _Custos_ is; he simply wants evidence to back up his accurate intuition." With a cool sniff, the blond turned back to the Dark Lord. "Do I have permission to take care of this Sheltered Hope charity as I see fit, My Lord?"

The Dark Lord took hold of the letter on his desk and set it aside, his head cocked. "I trust you to treat it clandestinely, Lucius. You may do whatever you think is warranted." He then looked up at the trio of wizards before him. "That is all, gentlemen."

Severus stayed seated, knowing he was called here today for something else entirely. A pensive sat on the bookcase behind the Dark Lord, reminding Severus what he would need to sacrifice.

He had been asked to share a memory with his Lord. It had been a peculiar request, but after much deliberation, Severus had reluctantly agreed to share it. Memories were such private things, after all, powerful enough to leave an individual feeling exposed. However, choice did he have in the situation?

Riddle could ask permission, but everyone within his ranks knew it was a false consideration.

As soon as the door closed behind Barty and Lucius, Tom turned his full attention on Severus. "I must confess to you, Severus, that I was played for a fool."

Severus pressed his hands into his lap, his shoulders stiff and his expression cool. He trusted the Dark Lord more than anyone else, and yet, he was also aware of the ulterior side of Tom Riddle.

The man liked to be diplomatic. He liked to be polite, tactful, and generous. As a politician and as a Lord, he liked to treat the people who followed him with as much reverence as a man of his caliber could. And in return, his followers idolized him for something other than his overwhelming magic.

They were loyal to a fault and they would do anything to impress and protect their Lord.

Yet, Severus knew there were more layers to Tom Riddle. The man was extremely dangerous and cruel. There had yet to be a situation where the Dark Lord's true side came out, but Severus knew it was there, brimming beneath the surface.

At times, he saw past the carefully crafted expression In its place, a lethal predator watched his loyal subjects with wicked delight.

Knowing what really lied beneath made Severus hesitant about _Custos_ and the Dark Lord becoming closer. For the most part, Tom Riddle was given everything. Rarely, the Dark Lord would work hard to get what he wanted, but other times, most the time, he used his power and charm to get what he desired.

Tom Riddle intimated people, they were awed, and they were star-struck. They bent over backward to appease the man and the Dark Lord took it greedily.

But then there was _Custos_. The serial killer was directly challenging the Dark Lord; he was directly challenging the Minister and his Ministry. If _Custos_ didn't give the Dark Lord what he wanted, then Riddle faced two choices. He could kill _Custos,_ like a spoilt child who couldn't get his favorite toy, or he could pursue further and try to meet _Custos_ halfway.

The end result would be intriguing. And Severus intended to see how the Dark Lord maneuvered when he was faced with a stubborn obstacle.

"I am chasing my tail with the identity of _Custos_ , just how he intended it," Riddle continued, ignorant to Severus' inner-thinking. "I have constantly doubted my intuition to the point of beginning to look for other suspects. Only, I finally stumbled across something that may determine the outcome of this guessing game."

"Oh?" Severus murmured, interested, but knowing the Dark Lord didn't truly want him to offer his input.

Riddle's smile curled. "One of the only witnesses who interacted with _Custos_ claimed she suddenly felt safe with him, as if all her fears were erased and replaced by trust. And then there is the predicament with _Custos_ ' signature. All but one of his victims died with a smile on their face, as if they _enjoyed_ the kill." The Dark Lord peered at Severus. "What can possibly manipulate emotions so easily, Severus?"

It took a moment, but Severus stiffened as he pieced together the conundrum. This was why the Dark Lord wanted _this_ particular memory.

"That is virtually impossible," Severus spat, his lip curling. "Harry Potter is not _Custos._ "

Riddle tsked at the show of such naked disgust. "That wasn't what I asked you, Severus. I'll ask again. What, or who, can possibly manipulate emotions so easily?"

Onyx eyes glimmered unhappily. "A powerful Empath," he growled out, "One that has the mature power to manipulate one's emotions. There are but a few Empaths and the majority of them can only feel basic emotions. They would also be able to leak weak waves of manipulated sensations. For _Custos_ to be able to penetrate past his victims' obvious agony and fool them to think they're enjoying it, he must be powerful."

"Exactly," the Dark Lord praised, a coy smile on his lips. "I asked you if Harry Potter was an Empath. You confirmed that he was."

"He is," Severus drawled in agreement. "But Harry Potter is… he is not capable of parading two lives with such feat. He is not—"

"Slytherin?" the Dark Lord finished, reaching behind him and gathering the pensive. "We can discuss Harry's intellect after we view the memory. From what you described, this was not only the point where you learned his Empathy had increased in potency, but this was also his breaking point." He stood up, pushing the pensive closer between the two.

Severus refused to move.

"Come now, Severus, don't be so dour. You will accompany me in this memory."

Severus stared at the pensive. It was an extremely potent memory for him. The idea of reviewing it brought back the conflicting emotions he had buried underneath his Occlumency barriers. He disliked Harry Potter, and yet, this memory was painful for Severus to relive.

It was a period of losses, of hopelessness. Dumbledore had just recently passed away and the Potters had been killed.

Most importantly, Lily had been…

And her proud son had been left in shambles.

His gaze turned to the side of the office, surveying the large portrait of Merope. The witch watched him back, her gaze soft and understanding. She was silent, as she always was in the company of wizards other than her son.

"I agreed to show you this memory," Severus began quietly, turning back to look at the patient Lord. "I trust that you will not violate it or use it against either Potter or myself."

Riddle studied him seriously, before his crimson eyes softened similar to his mother's, a rare act indeed. "I give you my word, Severus."

Severus grimaced, not believing his Lord's cunning act, before he leaned forward, pressing his face against the surface of the pensive. The Dark Lord followed a moment later.

" _You've finally decided to show up," Black snipped as soon as he saw Snape approach down the corridor. Black stood outside the door to Potter's hospital room. Behind him, a few Weasleys slept on a conjured couch with a silent, but a conscious Granger sitting at the edge._

" _Not everyone can drop their work for a Potter, Black," Snape hissed. "Stand aside, I don't need to waste anymore of my time here than necessary."_

_Severus and the Dark Lord appeared in the hallways of St. Mungos, next to the quarrelling figures of Black and Snape. It wouldn't be long before he was once again in that dark room, facing one of his past regrets._

" _Potter asked for my presence here," Severus explained quietly to his Lord as Black began snarling in anger. "Black was being especially sour that day. It was the first time Potter was conscious since the ordeal with his parents. The boy refused to let anyone inside his room. Imagine Black's surprise when Potter declined to speak to anyone but me."_

" _I thought you and the boy were at odds," the Dark Lord murmured, finding little to appreciate in the memory as Snape and Black continued the cutting insults. "What could possibly fuel him to seek you out at a time like this?"_

" _We are, we were at odds," Severus confirmed, tilting his head in invitation as Snape finally bypassed Black and stepped in the room. "The rest will answer your questions."_

_He followed the Dark Lord as they entered the dark room, the door closing behind them._

_The hospital room was usually magically altered to fit a current patient's mood and needs. Severus visited the hospital several times, but he couldn't remember a time when the staff allowed a room to be so dark, especially for a recovering patient who had gone through Potter's hell._

_There was a small light at the bedside table and it omitted a warm glow. Yet, Severus still needed to adjust his eyes to the dark to grimly nod at the empty bed._

_Snape came to a halt next to the empty bed, his sneer deepening. He gave a sniff, no doubt smelling the minty-scent of the monitoring spells the hospital staff placed on their patients. It was evident that Potter was still in the room. "Is the bed not quite to your tastes, Potter?" Snape searched the room when silence met his inquiry. "Normally a patient prefers the lights after an accident such as yours. I suppose you're always a special exception."_

" _You label it as an_ accident _? I doubt even a smart man like yourself, Professor, knows the extent of what truly happened." The voice that answered was quiet, hoarse. "I prefer the darkness when I'm awake, but I require the lights on when I sleep. You're not so far off."_

_Snape whirled around, immediately spying the small figure crouched in the corner of the hospital room. Severus, however, was slower to turn. He reluctantly turned his attention on the broken figure in the corner of the room. The boy's appearance was still as startling as the first time he had seen it._

_The first thing he had been aware of was the skin, startlingly pale and gaunt. There were healing abrasions across his face and there were deep and dark circles underneath his wide, glazed eyes. Without the glasses, without the arrogance, Snape and Severus looked into Lily. The boy's hair was long and it covered the majority of his face with limp and lifeless strands._

_Snape, taken aback at the sight, did his best as he schooled his features into stern impassiveness. "I am sorry for your loss," he said, his tone practiced and controlled, yet trying to sound sincere._

" _No you're not," Potter responded. "You may be sorry to hear of my mother's death, but you aren't sorry for me or my father. I didn't ask you here for false consolations, sir, that's Sirius' job."_

" _You do not wear pity well, Potter," Snape barked, upset at the mention of Lily. "Why did you ask me here then? Get to the point and save me the melodramatic croons."_

_Potter scoffed softly, placing his forehead against his drawn knees. For a moment, he was so still, so quiet, Snape believed he had fallen asleep. But Severus knew better. "You're a Master Legilimens. You're an endless void," the boy breathed. It was then when Snape noticed the slight wheezing in the boy's lungs when he took a breath. "You're comfortable to be around, I can't sense you like I can the others. They're even outside the room, but I can still feel them."_

" _Potter—_

" _My Empathy," Potter interjected, sensing Snape's impatience. "It's… grown. It's gotten stronger. I trust you, sir. I wanted to ask if you could take a blood sample and look for any discrepancies."_

_Snape stared at the folded figure in the corner. "It is reported that Empaths can advance their ability if they experience a particular potent event. The stronger the emotions they experience, the stronger they become. Your increase in sensing others—"_

" _No!" Potter interrupted fiercely. He suddenly reared his head up and stared unseeingly at Snape. "It's not just sensing. I can sense people more deeply now. I can almost taste them. I can taste how tainted they are, I can pinpoint every emotion I'm getting from them. And it's harder for me to control my own emotions as I transfer mine to them."_

" _I will take a sample of your blood then, Potter," Snape replied crisply. "Is that all?"_

_The atmosphere darkened and became heavy. Severus stiffened, knowing what was to come. From the corner of his eye, he was mindful of the watchful Dark Lord. The man had been incredibly shielded since they entered the room, his crimson eyes absorbing everything that transpired between the two._

" _Teach me Occlumency," the boy whispered hoarsely._

_Severus pressed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose as his counterpart sneered. "Is that a request or a demand, Potter? Either way, I am declining." He made his way toward the door to the hospital room. "I wish you a speedy recovery."_

" _Please," Potter choked out. It stopped Snape short._

_Suddenly, Potter wheezed and began standing up. Standing, the boy looked no older than a Fifth Year at Hogwarts. He was frail, weak, and trembling. Both his hands were bandaged and his leg was in a support cast. He wore no shoes or socks and the fiery-red flesh alerted the occupants that new skin was growing on his feet._

_The boy had been tortured. Judging from the wheezing in the boy's lungs, it was clear that the torture wasn't just superficial. And judging from the haunted and eerie look in those green eyes, the torture also extended mentally._

" _I'm sorry for what happened last time you tried to teach me Occlumency. I had no right to look in your pensive. But I need this now," the boy pleaded._

" _You intentionally invaded my privacy. You think I could trust you with such intimacy again?"_

" _I was fifteen," Potter argued, taking a shuffle closer to Snape. "Dumbledore forced me to work with you in order to shield my Empathy. At the time, I didn't think I needed it, I didn't understand what you sacrificed in agreeing to teach me."_

_Snape gave him a dark look. "The answer is still no, Potter."_

" _You don't know what it's like!" Potter cried as Snape reached for the doorknob. Severus forced himself to keep his eyes on Potter, watching as the fragile frame began to tremble more fiercely and the eyes begin to tear. "You loved her."_

_Snape turned quickly to stare at Potter through angry onyx eyes. "Don't," he ordered sharply._

_Potter shook his head, his bony shoulders hunching forward. There was almost a desperate panic in his eyes as he leaned closer to Snape. "Could you possibly imagine watching the woman you loved being tortured? Could you imagine hearing her screams and pleading for days on end?" Potter began breathing heavily as his face contorted in turmoil. "But that's not even the worse of it. They raped her."_

_Snape and Severus both turned pale, the cruel words echoing in his head as fiercely as they had the first time._

" _I felt every last minute of it," Potter wheezed, giving a choked sob as he clutched the roots of his hair. "They found out I was an Empath and they did it intentionally. I felt her humiliation, her fear, her boundless hate and devastation." He doubled over. "I can't get it out of my head! I can't wash them off me!"_

_Snape stumbled away from the boy, opening the door and refusing to turn around._

" **Coward** _!" Potter screamed hoarsely after him, his breathless and strangled sobs echoing through the memory even as it began to dissolve._

Severus was thrown back in his chair, his stomach tight with anxiety and unease. He stared at the pensive, the memory winking at him mockingly before swimming away in the depths of the pensive, surrounded by other regrets, other mistakes. He refused to meet the eyes of the Dark Lord.

Finally, after a pregnant silence, the man spoke up. "The boy was at his breaking point, pleading to a Master Legilimens to teach him to construct a simple Occlumency barrier. And yet, you refused to teach him. Surely he wasn't that incompetent."

"Don't judge me," Severus replied harshly. "I live every day regretting walking away from him."

"I'm not judging you, Severus," the man replied. "I just want to know why." The Dark Lord took Severus' silence before continuing. "It's obvious your personal feelings for Harry got in your way of teaching him. You always held a remarkable hate for his father. And from what I just observed, you still harbored feelings of love for his mother."

Severus stiffened as he finally looked up at the Dark Lord. His protests about bringing up his love for Lily died on his tongue. Those crimson eyes pierced through him, rendering him vulnerable and bringing him back to those days before he learned Occlumency.

"Our subconscious hate for each other made it impossible to link our minds fully together. He claimed he trusted me, but his subconscious felt differently. My hate for his father and for his very existence made it impossible on my end."

"And yet, you couldn't have even pushed that hatred aside, even if his parents had died? He was reaching out to you, Severus. Surely you could have taken him in as your student."

His Lord was taunting him, mocking him. They both knew exactly _why_ Severus refused to teach Potter.

"What do you want me to say, My Lord?" Severus asked bitterly, his lip curling. "That I was a coward? That I completely turned my back on a broken boy because I didn't want to have access to Lily's last days of torment?" Severus breathed deeply, unfazed and meeting the Dark Lord's impassive stare. "I didn't want to see her suffering. And I didn't want _Potter_ to see my vulnerability. He is much like his father."

"Was," the Dark Lord corrected. "The Harry Potter you knew is no longer that broken boy, but a cold and determined man." Riddle ran a careful hand along his jaw in contemplation. "It's truly amazing," he breathed, "How one small event can change the course of the future, how one event can completely alter a man's soul." He considered Severus. "There are hardly any records regarding the deaths of Lily and James Potter. What do you know of it?"

Severus looked away. "All I know is that they were tortured, Harry included. The only man Potter was able to identify was Remus Lupin. They held the trail and Lupin walked away."

"You must have _some_ idea who was after the Potters," the Dark Lord pressed, his tone cooling. "Do not lie to me, Severus. Torture in the Wizarding world is no random act."

He shook his head, meeting the Dark Lord's eyes squarely. "Truthfully, I have no idea who targeted the Potters. Don't you think that if I had known who was behind it, that they would be dead already?"

The Dark Lord suddenly leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he mulled something over. "Harry doesn't know who his attackers were," he murmured. A cruel smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "I may have just found the necessary bait to keep him at my side."

" _If_ he truly is _Custos_ ," Severus intercepted. "Potter—"

"Has changed," Riddle hissed softly. "The boy you once knew is no longer, Severus." The Dark Lord tapped his fingers together, still piecing something together. "I have strong evidence that links _Custos_ and Harry together as one entity, but I am also hesitant to be certain of that fact."

Severus remained silent, knowing when to intervene and when to let the Dark Lord mull.

Just minutes later, the Dark Lord straightened and a predatory glint lightened his eyes.

"I think I may have found a way to get _Custos_ in our possession _."_


	8. Chapter Eight

**8\. Chapter Eight**

" _Will you?" the man breathed._

_His eyes were abnormally bright as he admired the tall and lithe figure standing across from him. Compared to all the others, compared to all the other Lord-leveled wizards, this one carried himself with an air of powerful refinement. But no one could compare to Gellert, sweet Gellert._

" _Will you become… Gellert Grindelwald and continue down the path where he left off? Will you allow me to participate in the war and help you rebuild this world?" He too, was powerful. Regrettably, he was not as influential as Tom Riddle._

_Riddle smiled thinly as he walked out from behind his desk. With spider-like fingers, he withdrew a velvet pouch of gold coins and offered it to the man standing before him. "If that is who you wish to compare me to, than yes. I shall become Gellert and his ideals. And you will be a powerful ally to me."_

_The white-haired man bowed lowly at the waist. Perhaps this time, Tom Riddle would succeed where the others had failed. "Then it will be done, My Lord, as quickly as I can make it happen."_

_With sadistic amusement, Tom watched the man leave his study, his eyes narrowing in both disgust and contemplation. "Be sure to do just that, Mr. Regbo," he whispered after the wizard._

" _Why do you fool him so, Tom?" A feminine voice inquired from behind him. Thin arms wrapped around Tom's torso and a cheek pressed against his broad shoulder. "What could possible make you boast about becoming that cruel and psychotic Dark Lord?" She tightened her hold on him. "You are a majestic Dark Lord, Tom, a regal and powerful wizard capable of wonderful things. My, you've already accomplished so much."_

_He turned to look over his shoulder at the elderly woman._

" _Don't worry, mother. You taught me well. I only lull him to such false hopes because he has something that I want." Deep brown eyes hardened as they turned back to consider the closed door. "He is blinded by admiration for the ghost of Grindelwald's regime. Once I get what I want, he is easily discarded."_

" _Now, now, what have I told you about an unhealthy supply of arrogance? Easily discarded, you say. But you may be underestimating him greatly, my son."_

**. . Dreams . .**

Harry stumbled ungracefully to the door, hitting his foot on the kitchen stool on the way there.

He cursed breathlessly, rubbing a palm against his face before peering into the peephole. It was nine o'clock in the morning, on a _weekday._ People knew he was at the Ministry working, so why the hell was someone here, knocking down his door?

As he glanced outside, a prominent grimace adorned his features as he saw his _therapist_ of all people.

"Harry," the man called, using his fist to pound against the door. "I know you're in there. I have a nose of a hound."

Harry ducked away from the door, his eyes narrowed. His Doppelgänger was most likely sipping a warm cup of tea in his office at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. His therapist knew that, he had to. If Harry opened the door to let him inside, he risked the chance of exposing the fact two Harry Potters were roaming Britain. Then again, if the therapist continued to be stubborn and slam his fist against his door, he may draw attention.

Doubtless, the damage was already done if there _were_ surveillance on his flat. "Damn it," Harry hissed, yanking the door open and remaining hidden from any prying eyes outside. "Get in."

The therapist smiled and shuffled inside with his cane in the lead.

Dr. William Stratton should have been an elderly man on all accounts. He mimicked the late Albus Dumbledore in his sometimes cheery dispositions, he carried a magical cane, and he wore dark glasses to cover his eyes. He claimed he wasn't entirely blind, but enough to warrant the need of a cane. His condition was hereditary and the Healers tried to cure him, but they had only made the situation worse by tampering with his eyes.

Instead of being in the later stages of his life, William appeared no older than thirty.

Elbow-length tawny hair pulled back in a low ponytail and he dressed in suit vests and equally nice slacks. His lips were thin, and if they weren't pulled back in an extremely galling smile, they were pressed together in contemplation.

"Mr. Potter," William greeted warmly, his cane easily preventing a collision with Harry's looming figure. The cane then tapped Harry's foot and slid a bit up his leg like that of an eager puppy. William tsked and turned a wide grin in Harry's direction. "Brilliant weather out today, isn't it?"

Harry's lashes lowered as he eyed the heavy clouds and the light snowflakes.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, shutting the door behind the therapist.

"Yes, a cup of tea would do wonders right now, thank you," William responded lightly, making his way blindly over to the sitting area.

He watched the doctor sit on the loveseat, apparently not the least bit ashamed at his invasion.

"I'm fresh out," Harry grumbled, walking cautiously over to the motionless man. He stared into the dark lenses, finding that the glasses annoyed him now more than they had ever before. He liked to see a man's eyes, especially when he felt as if he needed control over a situation.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated pointedly.

There was one thing that always intrigued him about Dr. Stratton. The man's emotions never really piqued. In all ways, William had a mild flatline when it came to his feelings. He was always feeling… peaceful, pensive, and mildly content. There were some times when he felt pity and concern, and an occasional rush of guilt and anger. But all those changes of mood were somehow muffled and not as noticeable as it was for other people.

As far as purity went, William was certainly tainted, but not particularly tainted that Harry felt ill or on-guard around. The flatline emotions could be due to a weak Occlumency barrier, but certainly not strong enough as a Master Legilimens' barrier.

William pressed his back against the couch, crossing his hands together over his cane. "I have missed you."

Harry had to pause at the sudden admittance. "I saw you just yesterday," he argued. His Doppelgänger had gone to his therapy session yesterday, the last one for this month. "Surely you—"

"But that wasn't you, now was it?" William countered, his smile beginning to strain. "Do you mind telling me why you feel obligated to have a Doppelgänger parade around as Harry Potter?"

"How did you know?"

Harry was truly curious, wondering if there was a defect with his Doppelgänger. His therapist didn't know him as well as his friends did, but somehow, he had been the first to confront Harry about it. Oddly enough, he didn't feel threatened.

Dr. Stratton couldn't go to the Aurors with this information because of the doctor and patient confidentiality. There were ways to explain the Doppelgänger's existence to the man without hinting that it was created for anything _Custos_ -related. Besides, if there was a defect with his Doppelgänger, he could improve on it before anyone else grew suspicious.

"I told you, I have a good nose," Dr. Stratton mused, tapping his cane deliberately. "My cane didn't recognize you when you came in. I also received a visit from a concerned observer. They have seen the Doppelgänger for what it is and believed I could be the one to help you."

Harry looked at the man sharply. "Oh? And who would that be?" he murmured, his mind racing.

Had Riddle actually—

"Hermione Granger." Dr. Stratton shifted, looking back and forth inside the flat with blind admiration. "Tea, Mr. Potter. Surely you have some tea? Earl Grey? I know it's your favorite," he sang, sniffing the air as if he could scent the Earl Grey from his position on the couch.

Unimpressed, Harry crossed his arms, refusing to sit. "I told you, I'm fresh out." Merlin, the man had a one-tracked mind. "Hermione came to you?"

It didn't surprise him; in fact, he had been expecting her to approach him any day now. When looking into his Doppelgänger's memories for the days' events, Hermione had never showed signs of treating the Doppelgänger with any less enthusiasm as she had since day one.

He could only assume she had known _then_. He wondered if she had decided to wait for Harry to make a change and choose for himself to get rid of the Doppelgänger. When weeks had gone by, and the Doppelgänger remained, she most likely decided to intervene. Why she didn't come directly to him, Harry didn't know. Though, he had his suspicions that she was afraid of him. If that were the case though, she wouldn't have mentioned anything about the Doppelgänger.

William frowned. "Harry, please sit." When Harry made no move to sit, the therapist sighed, patting the cushion next to him. "We need to discuss this."

"We can discuss it when I have a session scheduled, Dr. Stratton. Until then, I am gratified that you care enough to check up on me."

The frustration was strong from William as he leaned forward, his hands braced against his cane. He stared at Harry, his lips pursed. "Why did you create a Doppelgänger, Harry? I had thought we were making progress in your sessions." He paused and tilted his head marginally. "Has it all been an act, this whole time?"

It was obvious the man wasn't going anywhere until he got answers.

Harry settled on the couch across from the therapist, internally debating on how to proceed. Of course it had always been an act when he visited Dr. Stratton. He let enough grief slip past his mask and he gave back a reasonable amount of respect and admittance that he'd been listening.

"It hasn't been an act," Harry replied carefully. "I've just been going through a rough patch is all."

William's face contorted into unease. "Then why don't we go back to meeting once a week?"

"I can't," Harry argued, "I'm fine, really." The thought of taking a step backward in his _healing_ process irked him. He had his own therapy, couldn't they understand that? "I created a Doppelgänger out of desperation. I kind of enjoyed not having to work or interact with people for a bit."

"Do you consider that healthy, Harry?" Stratton reasoned. "To me, this means that you're hiding yourself away, withdrawing from reality. The isolation you're keeping yourself in could have a negative impact on your mental state. Don't you see that there are many people around you that have reached out to help you? The Weasleys, Miss Granger, and your godfather have all expressed a desire to see you better. They would do anything to assist you, me included."

Harry quickly changed tactics. Giving into what they wanted was all they needed to hear. Arguing would go nowhere and it would cause unwanted attention. No one would ever understand how he felt. He nodded carefully.

"I know that," he said, pitching his voice higher. "I just tend to have these episodes every once and awhile."

William stared at him from behind his dark lenses, a prominent frown to his lips as he somehow saw straight through Harry. "Creating a Doppelgänger is not a simple _episode_ , Harry."

Green eyes flashed coldly. "Am I required to have these sessions with you, Dr. Stratton?"

Silence.

"It has been an act all along," the man breathed. Surprise morphed into panic. "This… this hate cannot be good for you—"

"And neither can these sessions." Harry stood up, walking to the door. "I had been wanting to part ways with you, Dr. Stratton, but I suppose now is a good enough time as any. Thank you for all that you've done fore me. I assume the confidentiality between patient and therapist is still intact?"

William, still sitting, shook his head in disavowal. "You haven't seen the last of me, Harry." He pushed off from his cane and stood. With grace Harry had never seen on him before, William approached the door without the aid of the cane. He stopped directly in front of Harry, using his height for the first time to his advantage. "You will learn to forgive, if it's the last thing I do."

"Forgive?" Harry repeated, feeling as if he were doused with icy water. "Forgive… forgive them?" he whispered. His vision clouded and he held himself stiffly. "There is _no_ redemption for what they have done. Get out."

Stratton stared down at Harry before he sighed, backing away. Without another word, the therapist exited the flat, his step a lot more fluid than Harry had ever seen before.

Slamming the door shut, Harry leaned against it, his eyes narrowed. William Stratton was not who he said he was. Like Harry had done throughout their sessions, Stratton had also masked his true self. There was something off about that man.

And Harry was also off on his game today.

He groaned loudly, tipping back his neck and pressing his hands against his face. He had fooled the man for so long, how had it crumbled so easily today? His Doppelgänger was no longer safe, either. Not everyone was magically bound by patient and doctor confidentiality. If they found out Harry had a Doppelgänger, questions would arise and everything he had worked so hard to conceal would unravel completely.

Originally, he had created the Doppelgänger to throw Riddle of his trail. He had intended for the Minister to read the Doppelgänger's mind and come up empty-handed. He would then realize Harry was not _Custos_ and look elsewhere.

Since those many days ago, Riddle had kept his extreme distance. The man hadn't even seemed ruffled over the fact that _Custos_ had unveiled his plans for the future Muggleborns and donated his gold to a charity. The Minister, or rather, the Dark Lord was laying down low.

It was a bit disappointing, but it could also be a good sign. Riddle had his attention elsewhere.

But Harry had known this for a solid week already. So why hadn't he taken the place of his Doppelgänger now that its purpose was fulfilled? If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he was truly and utterly afraid. Living in the shadows, without his mask and without constant worries, had been glorious. Stepping back into the life of Harry Potter seemed frightening, almost impossible.

"Damn it," Harry hissed, throwing his fists behind him and into the door.

His upper lip twitched and his fingers soon followed suit. He rolled his neck, trying to push back his anxiety. It was his own bloody fault that he had grown too comfortable in the life of _Custos._

Suddenly, he realized he was dangerously close of creating two separate personalities.

He was beginning to associate _Custos_ and Harry Potter as two different people, not as the same entity. A mental disorder, which extended _that_ outrageously, was not something he wanted to experience. He already had enough problems. Yes, he could have masks, but he never wanted to lose the identity of Harry Potter when he was parading around as _Custos._ If that happened, _Custos_ would lose a purpose, he would lose morals. If he lost his _Custos_ identity, he would lose his sanity and he would leave himself vulnerable.

No, he wouldn't let that happen. The best way to make sure he stayed stable was to go back and play Harry Potter once again.

However, before he jumped, he wanted one more night of worry-free pursuing.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Walden Macnair had been on his radar for the past week.

The man worked at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, an executioner for the Beast Division. A week ago, the _Prophet_ made a big deal about Macnair being under suspicion of abusing his execution rights. It was reported that he had been charged with the deaths of three witches he had previously done business with.

Just hours later, the charges had been dropped and Macnair had walked.

Three nights ago, Harry had scoped out Macnair and had instantly noticed the man's taint. The man was certainly guilty of something, but Harry needed evidence and proof of his crimes before acting further.

Ever since the killing of Erik Slore, Harry had reigned in more of his primitive tendencies and had taken a step back. He decided to go back to pursing the men and women who walked away from the Ministry scotch free instead of hunting them off the streets.

It wasn't that he thought the men and women on the streets should remain untouchable, Harry just didn't know what to do with them just yet. If he decided to hail the Aurors and attract their attention to these tainted souls, he couldn't be sure he would be able to keep a solid hold on the situation.

It needed more devising. He _would_ come up with a way to put the spotlight on the men who remained in the shadows, committing their brutal acts. And when the Ministry got a hold of them and failed to convict them, then Harry would be free to hunt them.

Like Walden Macnair. The man was of old blood. Most likely his _Lord_ was able to pull strings at the Ministry and release him. Again, the justice system had failed to do their job.

Harry scoffed as he morphed back into his human form and lightly trekked outside the perimeter of Macnair's home. The pure-blood had been secluded inside his house for the past few days, refusing to exit. It frustrated Harry as he roamed the perimeter.

The man had a ward around his house and Harry was still trying to crack it. Breaking wards weren't his specialty, but he had been researching it during the day when his Doppelgänger was at work.

He took a deep breath, clearing his mind to the task at hand. His boots never made a sound as he exited the woods surrounding Macnair's home. The darkness was his ally as it cloaked his movements from any potential onlookers. He crouched next to the base of a tree, slipping his wand down the holster on his arm and into his hand.

There were past victims who had wards around their homes, forcing Harry to use creative means. He could interact with his victim face to face and manipulate their emotions in order for them to trust him. Other times he could lure them out of their home by simple bait.

Macnair was different. The man was stubbornly staying inside his house. From his position, Harry could see a few lights on inside the manor. Tonight, he would try to play with the wards and find a weak point. If he couldn't succeed in that, he would go back and scheme up a way to lure Macnair out of his house. After which, he would need to control the man's emotions in order to get closer to Walden and obtain the proof he was looking for.

Pressing his wand to the ground, Harry murmured the Latin incantation that would make the wards visible only to his eyes.

" _Promptus._ " The dome-like ward running around Macnair's house was a liquid gold, the small weaves of magic each distinguishable at the base.

Though, Harry blinked as he caught sight of another ward. This one was a deep and fiery crimson. Unfortunately, it wasn't surrounding Macnair's home but the area around the woods, encircling Harry's sitting form.

_It hadn't been there before!_

His pulse raced as he eyed the new ward from the corner of his eye, refusing to let it outwardly affect him. It was strategically placed around the woods and it extended past Harry's peripheral vision. Someone was watching him and someone had laid a perfect trap.

He breathed slowly through his mouth. He felt vulnerable. _He_ was no longer the hunter, but the target. There was nowhere for him to turn. He couldn't cross the threshold into Macnair's wards and he was currently sitting in a set of wards that would make it impossible for him to Disapparate.

A trap this elaborate didn't come from the Ministry, or rather the Aurors. No, Riddle's scent was all over this. The question was, what would the man do to Harry once he captured him?

_If_ he captured him.

"Throw out a bloody carcass and the predator always comes running," a cool voice sneered behind him. "Such a primitive man you are… to fall for such tactics." A wand pressed firmly against the back of Harry's hooded head.

Lucius Bloody Malfoy.

Harry frowned at Macnair's home, listening as light footsteps emerged from the woods behind him. "Tell me, if an attractive Muggle woman was bound and lying nude, would you come running into the trap just as quickly?" Fucking ponce. As Malfoy pressed the wand deeper into his skull, Harry felt the comfortable weight of his magical dagger at his ankle. "You always were an arrogant bastard, Malfoy."

With lightening quick reflexes, he slid his dagger from his boot and whirled around, slicing Malfoy's wand in half. The man gave a strangled cry, crying even louder as Harry thrust the butt of his palm into his nose. The blond went down in pain, blood pouring thickly from his broken nose.

His eyes swelled and watered. If Harry hit him any harder, he could have caused forced trauma to the brain that triggered fatal hemorrhaging. Malfoy should be thankful Harry had enough self-control to hold back.

Harry leaped to the balls of his feet and ducked below a spell headed in his direction. As he rolled across the ground in a tight summersault, he quickly counted the number of assailants. There were five visible wizards including a fallen Lucius Malfoy.

He lunged at the nearest and the smallest figure. He vaguely identified the man as a Barty Crouch Junior. The man's eyes were wide, deranged, and utterly hysterical as they watched Harry close in. He cast a quick stunner, intentionally aiming at Harry's feet.

With spells coming from the other three at his left, Harry curled his body forward, pressed his hands into the ground, and executed a tight flip toward Crouch.

As his body was in mid-flip, three spells collided underneath his head, appearing bright as lasers in the dusk. Harry grinned foolishly as he executed a tight flip, something he had been having difficulty accomplishing faultlessly.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he pivoted his body around and sent a roundhouse kick at Crouch, aiming for the specific spot at the man's neck. His foot chopped the carotid artery, applying the right amount of pressure to send the wizard collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

His hood fell, leaving his features exposed. He didn't have time to adjust it, for a spell caught him across the chest, sending him stumbling a good foot away. His lungs _burned._ Harry collapsed to the ground, gasping and wheezing, his body twitching and curling back and forth.

It wasn't the _Cruciatus_ , but it was something just as Dark in nature. He refused to cry out, having felt much worse than this before. Vibrant green eyes narrowed into slits as a heavy-set man stepped into his line of sight. The wizard looked down at him, chuckling darkly.

"You may have gotten a few lucky shots in, but a Muggle fighter will always fall to magic."

"Perhaps," Harry murmured, tossing his dagger at the tainted man.

As predicted, the brute-like man dodged the flying dagger before straightening. "You missed! You bloody missed! I was but a foot away." He tipped back his neck and laughed cruelly. With a renowned sense of merriment he aimed his wand at Harry.

"Maybe not," Harry cooed slyly before whistling shrilly. The dagger paused in midair and turned back around at Harry's call, racing toward them at breakneck speed.

The wizard frowned in confusion before he suddenly grunted in pain as the dagger embedded into his shoulder blade. At his moment of distraction, Harry jumped to his feet, grabbed the beefy wrist with a renowned sense of strength, and forced the man's wand against his eyeball. He chuckled sinisterly, stabbing it in the man's eye, hearing the squelching sound over the man's shriek.

" _Stupefy,_ " Harry whispered, using the man's wand to stun him.

He grinned as the body crumbled to the ground at his feet.

Sidestepping the unconscious man, his eyes locked on the last two standing. One of the wizards stayed motionless in the background. Harry refused to give the man his attention just yet and turned his gaze on the auburn-haired wizard. The man raised his wand, pointing it directly at smirking Harry.

"What are you waiting for, Avery?" Malfoy demanded, his voice no longer pristine, but muffled from his broken nose.

This… Avery was incredibly tainted. Harry's smile strained as he kept eye contact with the man.

Standing confidently next to the unconscious body of his last attacker, Harry reached out mentally and fed Avery emotions of extreme fear and terror. The man's unprotected mind quickly looped with Harry's Empath ability, causing Avery to believe he was experiencing something truly horrific. The man's blue eyes widened comically and his body began trembling madly.

And then the hoarse screams began. Harry laughed.

Before he could have much fun, the last wizard _Stupified_ Avery, ending the fun and the screams. Harry sobered, continuing to stand motionlessly as he surveyed the scene before him. Three wizards were unconscious while Lucius Malfoy stood nearby, his silver eyes assessing Harry with both veiled surprise and scorn.

Across from Harry, Severus Snape stood, his feet planted apart and his hands cupped together coolly in front of him. Harry knew him well enough to identify his posture as pre-duel preparation.

"Potter," Malfoy spat.

"Malfoy," Harry replied evenly, smirking at the blond from the corner of his eye. The man's face was already beginning to swell and turn deep purple and black. "But Merlin, that look is good on you. Truly." He turned back to look at the silent Snape.

With disinterest, Harry placed his foot underneath the brute-man's body and flipped him on his stomach. Keeping his attention on the two men, Harry crouched, pulling out his dagger. The man was still alive. Harry wouldn't have it any other way. He made sure to land blows that would make them all unconscious, not dead.

"You're _Custos_ ," Malfoy continued, disbelief creeping in his tone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry started. "I was simply enjoying a nightly stroll." He made a show of using his grey cloak to clean the blood off his dagger.

"It shouldn't be a surprise, a filthy half-breed like you—"

"Even when you sound like a dying Hippogriff, you still enjoy the sound of your voice too much, Malfoy." Without removing his eyes from Snape, Harry took his wand from its holster once again and cast a nonverbal _Stupefy._

His aim was true, and even though Malfoy attempted to dodge, it caught the man directly at his chest.

"Your aim has improved considerably, Potter," Snape spoke dryly, his expression completely schooled. His wand was still held limply in his folded hands.

Harry smiled twistedly, studying the man who had once turned his back on him. Snape was a name and a person whom Harry had refused to think long and hard about. This was the only man Harry had reached out to, the one person who could have truly helped him and steered him down a different path.

Harry felt bitter hatred for this man, but it wasn't as strong as he thought it should be. Because, if it wasn't for this man, Harry would have never reached his fullest potential.

He looked down, contemplating his dagger and wand.

Unlike the others, Harry knew Snape was quick and lethal. A physical attack would work, but Harry had to get close enough. No, a physical assault would not do, at least not initially. Snape had watched the others fall and he would expect something similar.

Placing his dagger into his boot, he kept a solid hold on his wand. Hermione thought he was inadequate with a wand nowadays. The public believed _Custos_ was a weak wizard. But they were all wrong. After all, James Potter taught him, and everyone knew James' skill when it came to dueling.

Just because Harry looked down on using magic at all times, didn't mean he was insufficient. Wizards relied on their wands too often and it gave them a false-sense of security. They were not indestructible, they were mere men holding sticks if they didn't know how to use them properly.

Snape raised his eyebrows when he noticed Harry choosing his wand over his dagger. "Are you certain that's a wise decision, Potter? If I remember correctly, you somehow managed to stumble your way through Hogwarts' dueling tournament using only your father's defensive magic as guide."

Yes, Snape was a remarkable duelist, incredible at offense. And he was right. If Harry was still a defensive dueler, he would have never survived very long with a predator like Snape pushing him backward.

"You'd be surprised at how much time can change one's magic," Harry murmured to himself, twirling his wand between his fingers. "You might even find that it's _you_ who is being forced to use defensive magic." He stalked nearer to Snape, eyeing the man with untamed excitement.

Being this close to a capable and valuable prey was almost as—

"Where's your Lord?" Harry asked quietly, his eyes just briefly leaving Snape's to consider the dark woods. He knew the man was here. He had to be here. The man was keeping to the shadows, watching and evaluating Harry from a distance.

The thought sent a thrill down his spine.

"You haven't changed, Potter." Snape caught Harry's attention once again. "You're still much like your father, arrogant and conceited. Do you truly think you can stand up to a Dark Lord of Tom Riddle's caliber?"

"Magically? Perhaps not, no," Harry conceded. He grinned when he spied Snape's small expression of surprise. "I think you pretend to believe that I haven't changed at all in order to hide your own sad evolution." Harry stopped pacing and turned to face Snape fully. He planted his feet shoulder length apart, ready. "Because the truth is, you're still a sad little man who can't get over the fact that his childhood obsession married your biggest rival. And more importantly, you're still a bloody _coward_."

The pinched nostrils were his first clue. The onyx eyes flashing were his second clue. Moreover, the challenging step forward was his last clue that his remark had done its predicted damage.

Snape was furious.

Harry dropped his excitement and replaced it with cool detachment as Snape attacked. He sidestepped the first one and wasn't at all surprised to see three other curses whip past him in angry succession. He whirled in a tight turn to avoid the second one, but had to cross his wand in front of his body to block the third curse.

An angry Snape was more vulnerable than a stable Snape. Harry intended to lead the man into a trap and it appeared as if they were getting off to a good start.

Harry kept his defense up, intentionally holding back on his offensive magic. Snape thought Harry was a purely defensive dueler, and he refused to consider otherwise because he was _never_ wrong when it came to a Potter. Harry smiled crookedly, doing his best to mirror his father's cocky grin. While he didn't feel entirely cocky, he wanted Snape to see James Potter, he wanted the Potions Master to become deranged.

He intentionally let a few curses nick him, and without his intending, a few even escaped past his defenses. A curse carved a spiraling wound across his arm, casting blood across the ground.

Somehow, through the pain, he grinned like James. "Is that the best you can do…? _Snivellus_?!" he roared, pitching his laugh to mimic Sirius'.

And if he hadn't felt Snape's true fury earlier, he was certainly getting a taste now.

Harry blocked an especially dangerous curse, using an upward block to enhance the shield. Snape quickly cast magic to disturb the ground, causing Harry to stumble, but catch himself. His grin may have been James Potter, but his eyes remained true as they focused on Snape, calculating and waiting for his chance to strike.

He lulled Snape into a false but steady rhythm. Back at Hogwarts, Harry had won the dueling tournament in his Sixth Year and Snape had decided to treat him to a prize—a chance to duel the resident Potions Master. Harry had lasted only a few minutes, demolished by the cruel and vicious Snape as the Slytherins cheered.

At the time, Harry believed he could have won. His overconfidence made him unprepared to deal with the larger threat of Snape.

This time, though, not only had Harry improved significantly on his offensive magic, but he also saw Snape as a worthy opponent. He knew the man was a skilled duelist. Harry's level mind gave him the ability to think thoroughly and prey on Snape's weaknesses.

As soon as he saw the man's aggression slow due to fatigue, Harry began his counterattack. He built a shield that absorbed and retained all of Snape's curses, bracing himself as it took a great deal of strength to keep it effective. Four curses later, Snape finally realized that Harry was standing motionless, holding a web-like shield.

Harry's James-persona suddenly slipped into ice-like cruelty.

The man would never learn. His prejudices made him weak.

"You are _too_ easy," Harry breathed, throwing the shield packed with Snape's curses back at him.

Onyx eyes widened and he stumbled backward, hastily shielding himself. Though, his shield hadn't been strong enough and he was thrown off his feet.

Harry didn't allow the fallen man a chance to recover. He quickly advanced, closing the distance between himself and Snape, not the least bit uptight at the close proximity. His attacks were cold and powerful as he cast a hex with each step. The man had to defend himself on the ground, not having enough time to pick himself up in between conjuring shields.

He infiltrated a weak point inside Snape's shield, cutting off two of the man's fingers and sending his wand flying. Harry leered down at Snape, raising his hand to finish the duel properly. Only, Snape was a proud man and would rather stoop to dishonorable methods than lose to a _Potter._

His onyx eyes locked fiercely with Harry's and he made a jump inside his mind.

Upon the invasion, Harry stumbled, dropping his wand and clutching his head.

With powerful Legilimency, almost bordering possession, Snape easily took control of Harry's body, making him stay rooted in place. Through muddled eyes, Harry could make out Snape reaching for his fallen wand, intent on winning with Harry immobile.

The man was staying firmly in the front of his mind, refusing to dig any deeper than necessary. And Harry knew exactly why the man was staying away. If the bastard wanted to invade Harry's mind, then he would get a little _taste_ of what he had turned his back on that day at St. Mungos.

Just as Snape curled his mangled hand around his wand, Harry gathered all the emotions he had remembered feeling from his mother. He also bundled in flashes of Lily's face, more especially, her broken and mangled corpse.

And then he chucked it in Snape's direction. The man _had_ been asking for it and Harry was more than happy to oblige.

Snape gave a hoarse cry, like that of a wounded animal as he was bombarded with images and emotions. Because he had been inside Harry's mind, he was vulnerable to seeing what Harry saw and feeling what he felt.

" _Lily_!"

He pulled out from Harry's mind in a mad dash, accidently ripping something vital on his way out.

Harry's body lurched and pain overtook him. Collapsing to the cold ground, Harry screamed, feeling as if his eyeballs were burning from the intense heat and pain. A headache unlike anything he'd ever experienced before bloomed inside his head. His ears bled and his nose followed suit seconds later.

Harry panted and whined, hoping that it was somehow Snape making those wretched sounds. He curled in on himself, dry heaving as the nausea churned his stomach.

Suddenly, a hand pressed into his belly, forcibly straightening him out onto his back. Harry resisted at first, but the pain made him unable to resist for long. His back was forced levelly on the ground and he looked up through hazy eyes at the last man he wanted to see in his current position.

Tom Riddle loomed, half-kneeling and half laying on the ground above him.

One hand held Harry's stomach down while another, spider-like hand grasped his jaw and held his face still. Crimson eyes, as bright as Snape's earlier curses had been, stared down at Harry.

"Tsk tsk, Severus, even amateurs aren't as clumsy as to make such a fatal mistake." He spoke to Snape, but his eyes were all for Harry. The Dark Lord's face was impassive as he stared into Harry, entering his mind like a cool breeze.

It was tempting to resist mentally, but Harry could find no fight left in him as he stared, slack. Although his mind refused to reject Riddle's invasion, Harry curled his weak fingers around the man's wrist, a feeble attempt to state his dominance in such a situation. His fingernails broke the skin even as Riddle healed his mind.

The man's mental touch was light and airy, touching him like that of a serpent's tongue. The places he touched turned cool, a generous reprieve from the earlier pain.

Riddle blinked, escaping Harry's mind and surprisingly having the courtesy of not meddling. His crimson eyes then dropped to his bloody wrist where Harry was weakly gripping. A sly smirk stretched his lips as he looked back up at the younger wizard. His earlier gentleness fell victim to predator-like ferocity as he curled his free hand through Harry's hair, yanking at the roots.

Harry grunted, his head forced backward as Riddle leaned closer, their noses nearly touching. He glared weakly, far too gone to make his own challenge clear. The man was lucky Harry was in no state to fight back.

"You already owe me, Harry," Riddle purred, flashing his teeth.

And then the man Apparated, taking Harry with him.


	9. Chapter Nine

**9\. Chapter Nine**

_Lily smiled emotionally, unshed tears clinging to her eyelashes. Besides her, James Potter was still unconscious, having put up the largest fight amongst the three. A deep gash on his forehead and the broken leg was proof of his failed efforts._

_Harry began to stir, frowning at the pitch darkness around him. He didn't remember much, just the sudden attack at their home in America. "Mum?" he murmured, squinting into the dark at his mother. He didn't have his glasses, but he was able to make out her blurred figure. Her hand was stroking his hair, an attempt to soothe him._

" _Hush, Harry, go back to sleep. You… you will need your strength for later."_

_She began humming, stroking his face and hair lovingly. Harry, still suffering from a head injury, began to drift off to his mother's wretched lullaby._

" _I'm so sorry…" she whispered brokenly._

Harry jerked awake, inhaling harshly as his mother's humming echoed in his ears. He kept his eyes closed as he bowed his head forward, refusing to 'awaken' until he gathered his bearings.

Feigning consciousness was a trait he picked up during his time in hell. He would feign unconsciousness and mentally brace himself for what waited for him on the other side of slumber.

The events from before he lost consciousness came back at him with a rush of extreme disappointment. He breathed evenly, acknowledging his foolish capture. Bloody hell, it was such a simple trap, albeit an effective one. The way Harry hunted his victims was well-known, even to the general public. He went after criminals who had been released from the Ministry. It could have been _anyone_ who'd set that trap and he'd fall for it.

He had been too predictable, just like Cormac bloody McLaggen.

How… sadly disappointing...

Harry hung his head further, fury licking and burning his chest. It was the first and last time he'd make that mistake. What made his lack of foresight shoddier was that _Riddle_ set it up, as if the man _knew_ Harry would fall for it that easily. Even if Malfoy was a bloody ponce, he had been right.

Hunters always caught their prey with the right type of bait. How could Harry resist a man as tainted as Macnair?

Though, it suddenly dawned on him that Riddle might know he was an Empath. The Dark Lord had several tainted cult-like followers, but Macnair was by far the worse. He was as bad, if not fouler than Erik Slore. Riddle had to have known that Harry could feel the taint from Macnair.

So who told Riddle about Harry's Empathy? Was the man really _that_ smart to figure it out himself? Empaths weren't very common, and when they were known, they weren't nearly as powerful as Harry.

He rolled his neck, bringing his attention back to the present. He was magically bound to a chair, his feet restrained and his arms charmed to hold motionless behind him. Riddle's magic was noticeable and oppressive as it hugged his skin. Vaguely, he was aware that his wand arm was healed marginally, taking away the earlier pain and sting.

Riddle must have healed it, or attempted to.

Carefully, he opened his eyes, expecting a mocking Dark Lord looming in front of him. Fortunately, only a lavish office met his assessment. It was comfortably warm with colors of rich browns and deep greens.

Narrowing his eyes, he immediately noticed a portrait of a woman. It was a rather large portrait, evidence that Riddle held this woman in high regard. The frame itself was gold, most likely costing more than all the gold in Harry's heaping vault. The painting was extremely life-like, making it appear more like a woman gazing in a mirror rather than a piece of artwork.

With critical, but blank eyes, Harry stared at the woman.

She appeared in her late thirties, but that didn't necessarily mean she had passed away that young. While one eye looked at him, and the other eye pointed in a completely different direction, she still possessed a sort of unique appeal. The dull, black hair fell to her elbows in kinky waves, bringing attention to her thin and gaunt face. Her eyes were brown, mirroring Tom Riddle's shade almost exactly.

She appeared like a shy and quiet woman, even bordering on timid and damaged. Yet, Harry stared deeper, noticing the hardness to those eyes. It was if she had to struggle through life just to accomplish the simple feat of staying upright.

This woman was most likely a strong and capable witch when the situation demanded it. The question was; what kind of woman earned the position of Tom Riddle's highest regards?

Really, the brown-colored eyes were a dead giveaway.

While mother and son had little similarities, the similarities were still there. Their noses, for instance, had the same curve and their lips were both thin yet shapely. They even oozed the same majestic air, the kind of air nobility carried. This was Tom Riddle's mother, a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin.

She was most likely a witch, yet didn't have the option of fixing her unaligned eyes. Harry once read that wizards who interbred amongst their own family often produced children with cross-eyes or similar defects. Healers could never fix the eyes because the incestuous genes were too strong to counterattack.

Harry kept eye contact with her. She stared back at him, strong intrigue and amusement on her features.

"My mother, Merope Gaunt." Riddle's voice cut through the silence like a dagger. Harry remained facing forward, away from Riddle's advancing form on his left. "She seems rather fascinated with you. I daresay that I had something to do with piquing her interest."

Riddle had shed his outer-cloak and was left in his black slacks and grey-collared shirt. Even from the corner of Harry's eye, he was aware of the man's porcelain pale skin.

He had his hair parted to the side, the same hairstyle Minister Riddle wore during the day. But the wrinkles were gone and the cheekbones were stretched taunt over flawless skin. The Dark Lord appeared younger once again and Harry couldn't understand why the man was parading around as a younger wizard in his free time.

Unless, of course, it wasn't a glamour at all.

Had Riddle truly grasped the gift of immortality? Harry scoffed mentally, refusing to let his mind wander over Riddle's appearance any longer. He had larger issues to deal with.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment, _Harry_?" Riddle inquired, his silky voice pitched lower in amusement as Harry remained mute and motionless.

Green eyes stared listlessly ahead, ignoring the tall form as it came to a stop next to his chair. Harry may have been magically bound to a chair, but he refused to give the man any satisfaction whatsoever, including the satisfaction of attention.

That was all the Dark Lord wanted anyway, for Harry to give some sort of reaction.

No, Harry was and would remain stone-faced.

A hand reached out and covered Harry's cheek in entirety, as if cupping it gently. When Harry refused to react, the hand curled and the fingernails raked across his face possessively. The nails didn't break the skin, they only left hot trails in their wake.

Something warm and tight coiled Harry's belly at the claiming stroke. He itched to return the favor to Riddle, to show the man that he wasn't the only one capable of dominance. He refused to admit he was aroused, simply because he hated this man and what he stood for. Yet, Harry couldn't deny the conflicting emotions when it came to Riddle.

The man was just _fun_ to interact with, to challenge, to fight. He was also intelligent and enigmatic. Harry never felt quite as alive and sharp as he did when he was in Riddle's presence.

Riddle raked his nails across the underbelly of Harry's chin. "You're a whole different person without your clumsy façade." He forcibly tugged Harry's chin to the side, forcing the younger wizard to make eye-contact with him. Riddle smiled thinly, looking pleased with himself for catching his intended prey.

"I knew it was you all along, Harry."

Harry simply stared, mentally snarling. Riddle had _not_ known it was him all along, Harry could attest to that much. If Riddle had known, he would have acted sooner. He wouldn't have kept a safe distance after each attempt Harry had executed to shake him off his trial

Riddle hummed deep in his throat, pushing Harry's cheek away from him and breaking eye contact.

The man walked carefully around his seated form, as if debating on what method to execute in order to break Harry's silence. As he circled, his long fingers trailed tauntingly across Harry's chest and around his shoulders and back. His steps were silent and lethal. If it weren't for the fingers raking across his torso, Harry would have trouble pinpointing the man's whereabouts.

The Dark Lord's smugness was incredibly potent. He was parading around his captured prize, preening at his success.

Harry stared stubbornly at the door across from him, his eyes zeroed on the doorknob. He had no one else to blame but _himself_. He should have been more mindful of his surroundings and he shouldn't have been so focused on the end result of getting his hands on Macnair. He had to accept his stupidity, get over it, and do something to remedy it.

"Are you chastising yourself? Is that the reason for your silence?"

He broke.

"No," he whispered softly, "You simply aren't worth my time."

Riddle acted, taking a handful of Harry's hair in his curled fist and yanking his head backwards. He leaned in close, their faces so close as they breathed the same air.

" _Liar_ ," the man exhaled. His crimson eyes captured and held Harry's stare. "If I wasn't worth your time, you wouldn't have spent days scoping the traffic in and out of my manor. If I wasn't worth your time, you wouldn't kidnap associates of mine and directly challenge me."

Harry clenched his teeth together in a smile. "I was returning the favor."

"I'm surprised to hear you admit that you were threatened, Harry."

The man kept using his given name. Harry didn't quite understand the implications of that. Was he trying to intimidate him further? Was he rubbing it in that he discovered _Custos'_ identity? Either way, it certainly wasn't getting on Harry's nerves. It took a great deal to ruffle him.

"I never said anything about being threatened, _Minister._ I only said I returned the favor." He was keeping special attention on the hand curled in his hair. Once it gave way…

_Come closer, Riddle. I dare you._

Riddle smiled thinly, his eyes drifting down to Harry's lips just briefly before he looked back up at him. "Doubtless, we both got what we wanted. I have you in my possession finally."

"And pray tell," Harry growled lowly, "What did I get in return?"

The hand loosened only a fraction in his hair, but it was enough. His eyes dropped from Riddle's crimson gaze to the bridge of his nose. He mentally calculated the distance and the height he would need to get a successful hit.

"I answered your silent pleas for help."

By Merlin, the man was a smug _bastard._ He certainly didn't feel bad about damaging the man's face.

Harry pulled marginally away from Riddle's looming face, giving himself accelerative momentum and straightening his torso in the process. He stiffened his neck muscles and clenched his teeth before using his body as weight to thrust his head forward.

He slammed the hard part of his skull against Riddle's nose.

The _crack_ that sounded was almost as pleasing as Malfoy's was earlier. Riddle didn't make a sound, but he did back away quickly, turning his back on Harry and pressing his hands to his face. The sight was highly amusing to Harry.

He snickered coolly, his eyes flashing with glee as he considered Riddle's turned back.

"Didn't Merope ever warn you not to provoke caged predators, Riddle?" Harry crooned. He suddenly turned serious, losing his mirth. "I don't know what you want from me. If it's to turn me in, then do so. But if it's conversation you want, I can assure you I won't cooperate while I'm tied to a chair." The magical binding around his ankles and arms turned almost painful in their restraint, a direct correlation to Riddle's silent but lethal anger.

"Are you even capable of carrying on a conversation?" the Minister whispered darkly, his back stubbornly facing Harry.

"With the likes of you? No."

Riddle kept silent for a moment, probably trying to heal his nose. There were a few drops of blood that dripped between his fingers and onto the floor at his feet. The _crack_ that echoed across the room signaled that Riddle set his nose back in order.

A moment later, a small object sitting on the desk issued a low beeping noise and emitted a flash red light. He had seen those before. They were similar to Muggle pagers; they were especially used at the Ministry for the employees and their Departments.

Harry's smile tightened.

The Ministry was calling for their Minister. It appeared as if this conversation would be postponed. Perfect.

The Dark Lord glanced at the object from over his shoulder, his face expressionless. A crimson eye then peeked at him. "Then you can sit here until you are capable of speaking to me."

Like that would ever happen.

"You're overcompensating," Harry taunted softly, watching as the man made his way to one of the doors. "You think binding me to a chair and making me sit here will make me feel inferior?" Even if the bindings were cutting off his circulation, he hardly let it affect him. "It's a rather large compliment for me to realize you have to hold me down in order to extract your will. How… disappointing, Riddle. I had expected more of a challenge from your intellectual side."

Riddle's shoulders stiffened and a low hiss escaped past his lips. "You aren't in the position to belittle _me_ when I'm the one holding the ropes." While he was angry, his voice was controlled and calm. "You _will_ sit here until I return. Do try to be a good boy."

And just like that, he swept from the room.

"Say hello to McLaggen for me," Harry murmured after the man.

Narrowing his eyes, Harry caught sight of the other side of Riddle's door. It looked like an exact replica of the Minister's office at the Ministry.

Did the man have doors leading to different places? Harry took another look around the office. He couldn't see the entirety of the perimeter, the bindings prevented him from turning fully, but he counted at least five separate doors spread across the office. Each one must lead somewhere else, a convenient way for Minister Riddle and the Dark Lord to be places quicker.

The Minister of Magic could be 'in his office', but no one would know he had taken another passageway inside the Ministry to come here and be a Dark Lord in between meetings.

This was also a clear violation of the Ministry bylaws. Creating doorways like this was almost as bad as tearing a sector in the Ministry wards and creating a location where enemies could Apparate and Disapparate inside without detection.

Harry exhaled slowly, glancing at the other doors and wondering where they led. This could also explain why there was more traffic going _inside_ Riddle's manor than outside. Followers may have another door that led to another base. Or Diagon Alley? Anywhere, really.

Slowly, green eyes rotated around to stare at Merope. The woman disappeared from her frame, giving Harry stark solitude. He didn't know what Riddle actually planned with him. The method of Harry's captivity indicated Riddle didn't want him to suffer just yet. Still, Harry wasn't one to sit and wait for someone to come back to control the situation.

_Harry_ was the one who controlled situations.

Granted, he had a brief slip earlier that resulted in Riddle having the upper hand. The man was too haughty if he believed Harry would sit meekly and take this sitting down.

Harry frowned. While he hated to admit it, he _did_ have a disadvantage with Riddle.

The Dark Lord knew his identity and he had the willpower to do anything he wanted with that knowledge. But what Riddle didn't know was that Harry always had options. He refused to be blackmailed into anything when he could just run. And depending on the type of blackmail, Harry may even surrender himself up to the Ministry's custody.

Though, those options of freedom wouldn't be available to Harry if he was forever in Riddle's possession. His Doppelgänger was posing as Harry Potter and no one would realize he was gone. He could be locked here until he was forced to accept Riddle's terms.

No, it was best to have Riddle approach _him,_ in Harry's turf where a Doppelgänger was not giving the Dark Lord an advantage.

Thinking of his Doppelgänger reminded him of a small accessory he had forgotten. He had added a little something _extra_ to his copy for a possibility of something like this happening. Harry's lips twisted in a smile. It could be risky and he could fail, but he'd try anyway.

Riddle wouldn't see this coming, surely not.

He settled his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, reaching out to the link he shared with his double.

**. . Dreams . .**

She entered a smaller portrait hanging on the wall of his Ministry office, her eyes critical as she watched him fix the swelling around his face. She wouldn't ask him if he was alright, simply because he wouldn't respond with a fair answer.

"Who is calling for you?"

"The Aurors," he replied in a clipped tone.

The blood was magically eliminated from the front of his robes and face. He turned, searching for the tie he kept at his office. Slowly, as he pulled out a simple black tie, his features began to wrinkle and age. She watched him, surprised he succeeded in reining his temper in front of the boy.

Their first encounter certainly hadn't gone according to his plans.

"You seem uncertain, mother," Tom drawled tightly, placing his tie around his neck.

The young woman twisted her hands slightly but stopped when she remembered Tom had once told her that it was an unbecoming gesture. She lifted her chin, gazing softly at her child. "He's unstable, broken…"

"Broken," he agreed smoothly, "But not shattered. I've seen much worse." The elderly man peered in the mirror, beginning to knot his tie. "Currently, all his problems are linked to one tragic and horrific event. He didn't have anywhere to put the blame for what happened to his parents, so he's subconscious blaming any criminal he can get his hands on. His lack of Occlumency and his strong Empath gift isn't helping matters either."

"Currently?" she pressed, frowning. He looked over at her patiently. "You said _currently_ all his problems are linked to his parents' death, Tom. What do you mean by that?"

His lips twitched.

After straightening his suit, he turned to lean his palms against his desk. "My first goal is to teach Harry that his victims are _not_ his unknown captives. Killing should never be emotional. If he continues to see his victims as his captors, he will lose himself. This realization will surely destroy him. We'll have an entirely new set of problems to deal with when that happens."

"He'll hate himself." Raised by the Light, the boy would surely struggle with the knowledge of what he'd done. With Tom Riddle leading him, the boy would eventually overcome his self-loathing and see it as something productive.

"Undoubtedly, if he doesn't already," Tom agreed. "Harry's locked into his flawed morality. Presently, he doesn't see himself as a killer, but as a wronged child extracting revenge and _saving_ the citizens of Britain. He'll need to see that he's no hero, that he has committed crimes the same depth as the people he's hunting. After hisself-destruction, it will be a difficult step to dance, but I'm sure I can put the pieces back together the way I want them."

She looked at the clock, knowing he needed to speak with the Aurors but he would postpone long enough to address her concerns. "You want to build him as your assassin…." she began hesitantly, still uncertain as to what her son wanted with Harry Potter.

Tom seemed to take interest in collecting useful witches and wizards. And he also made a habit of fixing things that were broken. Yet, he had never taken a direct interest in something of this caliber.

He seemed amused and only answered vaguely. "Yes and no."

Merope thought back to the interaction between Tom and Potter. The tension between the two had been thick, and so was the challenge. She had never seen her son as passionate as he was when he was interacting with that boy. "He's very handsome," she remarked, remembering those vivid green eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes. The boy _was_ a beauty, holding the same flawless exquisiteness around him that Merope had once seen in the elder Tom Riddle.

Dark eyes slanted in a predatory light. "Mother, what are you insisting?"

"Only what I witnessed," she shot back, standing her ground. "You're completely smitten."

"Smitten," the man repeated quietly. A mocking smile lifted the corners of his lips. "You make it so—"

"Innocent?" she interrupted. "Perhaps smitten isn't the right word for it, Tom, especially for someone of your… character. You're obsessed; completely intoxicated by the prospect of having someone that can challenge you and outwit you." Her smug smile turned down into a frown. While Tom had mentioned that Potter was indeed that challenger, she still didn't see it. "You have never taken on a lover before, only trysts. You don't truly believe he's your match, do you, child? You are so much more powerful than him, you deserve better."

"Not everything is measured by magical prowess, mother." Tom's face closed. "Watch over him, make sure he doesn't try anything. If he does, call for someone to assist you while I'm with the Aurors." He pushed away from the desk and swept gracefully toward the door. "It shouldn't take long to finish here. The wards will prevent _him_ from physically touching any of the doors in my office."

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"And would you be displeased if he _didn't_ try something?" She tsked as he shut the door, refusing to answer.

**. . & Darkness . .**

He stormed into the Department in a foul mood.

Of course, he didn't _appear_ to be in a foul mood, but Kingsley could see the tense lines around his mouth and eyes, as if he were holding something back. Usually the Minister was cloaked with enthralling magic, drawing in people around him. This morning, Riddle seemed to project an aura of unapproachability.

Nevertheless, the Aurors still turned their heads, watching as the man swept through the maze of desks.

For his part, Riddle wore a gentle expression on his face and greeted a few Aurors who were close to his proximity. They melted, returning the welcome with far more enthusiasm. Sirius Black just grimaced when Riddle turned his charm onto him.

"Minister Riddle," Kingsley greeted carefully, sweeping careful eyes down the man's attire. Prim and proper as always. "I hope you weren't too busy when I called for you."

The deep brown eyes wrinkled further as the Minister smiled at Kingsley. "If I had been busy, Auror Shacklebolt, then I wouldn't be here, now would I?" He smiled pleasantly, placing a hand on Kingsley's shoulder and steering them away from the front of the Department. "Have you finally gotten possession of Mr. McLaggen?"

"Yes, we finally have McLaggen and… his newly acquired tan. He didn't return home until yesterday after a four day vacation to the Virgin Islands. Conveniently, there hadn't been any more murders for that stretch of time." Kingsley shook his head as they headed toward the interrogation room. "I understand you weren't particularly interested in being present for the interrogation, but I thought I'd invite you anyway. He seems friendly enough, open enough."

Riddle chuckled, patting Kingsley once on the shoulder before dropping his arm. " _Custos,_ when caught, will most likely be smooth with the questioning until backed into a corner. Don't let his political sophistication fool you."

Kingsley _had_ thought of that. He just wanted to hear the Minister's input. The man was giving the impression that he was interested in the case once again.

"So you'll stay for the questioning?" Kingsley wondered as the came to a stop outside the closed door. "I had thought you weren't impressed where the case was heading."

The taller man rotated his body to face Kingsley, his expression morphing into one of patient understanding. "I understand my actions in the past may have indicated otherwise, but I am truly anxious to see this case move forward. There have been… distractions on my end, forgive me if I had appeared preoccupied, Auror Shacklebolt."

It was plausible. Kingsley wanted Riddle around for his intellectual mind and his quick thinking, but he also had to understand that the Minister had other duties to attend to as well. He nodded, accepting the answer.

"I too would like to get this case solved."

Indeed, he wasn't accustomed to work like this. Solving mysteries and crimes weren't his or his Aurors' specialty. They left those finer details to the Unspeakables. The Aurors, on the other hand, dealt with direct aggression or an investigation into an abuse of Dark Arts. They always _knew_ their suspect before acting. Kingsley couldn't remember a time when their suspect was able to fool the fine-toothed investigation from the Unspeakables.

Though, the situation with Erik Slore reminded Kingsley that there _were_ other serial killers out there besides _Custos._

He opened the door to the interrogation room, immediately spotting Cormac McLaggen sitting properly in his chair. The boy's blond hair had grown lighter and his skin had darkened due to his stay in the Virgin Islands. For the life of him, Kingsley couldn't conjure up the image of _Custos_ lying in the sun with a glass of finely prepared liquor beside him.

His excitement at having such a prospective lead was beginning to dissipate. Cormac didn't seem like their man, though, the boy was certainly arrogant enough.

"Auror Shacklebolt." Cormac nodded sharply before turning to Riddle. A subtle lift to his eyebrows was the only indication of his surprise. "And Minister Riddle, it's a very pleasant surprise to see you. I hope you're faring well?"

It was a politician's voice. Kingsley deadpanned, hearing the boy's obvious effort to deepen his voice.

Riddle appeared just as unimpressed.

"Perhaps not as well as you, Mr. McLaggen. I heard you recently took a trip to the Virgin Islands." Riddle walked toward the seat opposite of McLaggen and sat down. "Needed a vacation away from it all?"

Kingsley shuffled the parchments and photographs inside his folder and approached the chair next to Riddle. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the bright expression on McLaggen's face darkened considerably into wary politeness.

"Of course, I think everyone deserves a few days away from the stress of reality." McLaggen clasped his hands coolly on top the table, smiling lightly at both Kingsley and Riddle. "What can I help you with, gentlemen?"

Withdrawing the photograph of Lady Zabini and Erik Slore, Kingsley placed them on the table in front of them, making certain they were angled in McLaggen's direction. "Are you familiar with these people, Mr. McLaggen?" Kingsley tapped the photograph of Lady Zabini. "Of course, everyone of high standing should know Lady Zabini, but what about him?" He motioned toward Slore.

Cormac frowned deeply. "I… yes, of course, he was one of _Custos'_ victims. Erik Slore, a sick bastard who cut up living humans just for his potions." The boy's gaze jumped from Riddle to Kingsley. "And Lady Zabini was also a victim of _Custos._ But she was never convicted of any crimes."

Riddle leaned forward. "Do you follow the _Custos_ case closely, Mr. McLaggen?"

"A lawyer of your standing must be watching the case closely," Kingsley added to Riddle's query. He opened his folder, peering at Cormac's turnover results. "You have a good victory record for someone as young as yourself. A success rate of ninety-eight percent isn't bad, in fact, it's suspiciously good."

"What can I say?" McLaggen wondered, a smile on his lips. "I _am_ good."

Riddle and Kingsley exchanged a meaningful look.

"You're good friends with Hermione Granger, am I correct?" Kingsley continued tensely, deciding to skip the pleasantries and go right to the questioning. "Despite her earning higher marks than you in education and accreditation exams, her current success rate is at fifty-six percent. Does this… bother you? Surely, you feel some sort of resentment for the discrimination she experiences with her cases."

"Now wait just a second," McLaggen argued, his face turning red with anger. He held up a finger. "Just because Hermione is _book smart_ doesn't necessarily make her a better attorney than me." Here, he held up a second finger. "Secondly, her _discrimination_ is a direct correlation to the _prejudiced_ members of the Wizengamot. It's not up to me to fix that discriminatory problem, it's up to your Minister." He jabbed a third finger toward Riddle. "Thirdly, I know what you're getting at. I am not _Custos._ I've never killed a man in my life. I have never handled a dagger or practiced physical combatting skills. You should really look at your Aurors-in-training, Mr. Shacklebolt, or look at the ones that failed the magical combating examinations. _Custos_ is a Muggle-loving idiot who will meet his end when he's faced with a magical-capable wizard. And to think people worship him because of his perverse sense of justice."

Kingsley raised his eyebrows, remembering Riddle's earlier words about _Custos_ being political smooth until backed into a corner.

This certainly was a corner.

"Magic is traceable, McLaggen," Riddle said smoothly. "It's one of the reasons why _Custos_ has been avoiding detection. His physical ability is certainly not viewed as a handicap, but as an advantage." He smiled suddenly, appearing far more sinister than comforting. "Unfortunately for you, sometimes the perfect crime cannot be executed without a little magic, no matter how much you'd like to muffle it."

Cormac shook his head, still angry and now perplexed.

Kingsley cupped a contemplative hand against his mouth. "Have you experienced any unusual circumstances as of late, Mr. McLaggen? Has anyone threatened you? Have you noticed any of your items gone missing?"

McLaggen shook his head again. "I've been busy at work, completely away from _Custos'_ victims, away from civilization, away from any crimes."

"You may want to rethink that," Kingsley mused, sliding a piece of parchment toward McLaggen. "Your magical signature was found at the only crime scene that involved magic being performed by _Custos_." He watched as McLaggen leaned forward, grasping the parchment close to him. "A wand muffler was used over the wand, but our Unspeakables were able to extract a string of signature that was matched to _your_ wand."

"The brother of my wand—"

"Is a man pushing his two-hundreds, Mr. McLaggen, and completely unable to engage in physical activity."

McLaggen chuckled bitterly, pushing the results away from him. "I'm not _Custos._ These results won't hold up in court."

Here, Kingsley leaned forward, reaching in the space between him and the boy. "Perhaps not on its own, and perhaps we even have the wrong man. All you need to do is give us an alibi for the night of December 9th, Friday evening around eight o'clock." It was exactly when Erik Slore had been proclaimed dead.

Cormac paled and his eyes widened slightly. "I- I was at home."

Riddle chuckled. "Oh? And can anyone confirm that?"

McLaggen looked back and forth between the two men, his arrogance gone and falling victim to controlled nervousness. Kingsley took pity on him and offered him an out.

"Will you permit us to use Truth Serum and memory—"

"No, that's illegitimate," Cormac growled, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms. "I want a lawyer."

Kingsley considered the boy, viewing him in a new light. This could be it. This could _actually_ be it. McLaggen fit their profile as of now. He had no alibi for the night of Erik Slore's murder and his magical signature was traced to Lady Zabini's crime scene. Kingsley also knew a store owner in Knockturn Alley had sold a wand muffler the same day and time that Cormac took his lunches. And in that same day, the restaurant waitress confirmed Cormac had left earlier than he usually did.

McLaggen was also connected to Hermione Granger. He had a position of power during the day and he was intellectually smart. Even if McLaggen turned out not to be _Custos,_ he was certainly guilty of something.

Yet, even when the pieces began to fall in place, Kingsley still felt uncertain about the way things were going.

**. . Collide . .**

Harry shuffled down the path to Riddle's manor.

He was trying his best to make his movements fluid and _normal,_ but he was finding it difficult to take full control of his Doppelgänger's mind. He had established a sloppy link with his Doppelgänger when he created it, means for a last resort. The link was weak and it was fragmented, a direct consequence of constructing it when he had been magically drained.

There were times the Doppelgänger was able to nudge Harry away, but it was brief and fleeting.

Like now.

His stomach clenched in nausea as his consciousness slipped, causing the Doppelgänger's body to crumble to the ground. Harry then rocked forward in the link, establishing rule once again.

When he was in his Doppelgänger's head, he didn't feel as if he were in control of a body. Instead, the sensation of controlling his Doppelgänger felt as if his head was full of hot air and his body was sluggish, moving with a mind of its own.

The Doppelgänger _was_ Harry Potter, after all, and an alien presence in his mind was clearly unwelcome.

Harry pushed himself off from the ground, sweat dripping the back of his neck. He had pulled his Doppelgänger out of the Ministry this morning before making his way to Riddle's manor. He _was_ trying to go quickly, simply because he knew Riddle could return shortly.

Luckily, the gates were inching closer. Harry just hoped the Doppelgänger wouldn't push forward at a vital moment. If he had _one_ misstep, he would be stuck in the chair at Riddle's office _and_ his Doppelgänger would be in the Dark Lord's possession.

He reached out and tapped his knuckles against the wards to Riddle's manor, using the same three strikes he had seen the visitors use those days he had watched the manor. Someone would be out shortly. He knew. Harry only hoped he could pull this off in a believable and nonchalant manner.

It was difficult focusing on the outside world when he was already engaged in a mental battle.

Imagine his delight when he saw Lucius Malfoy sweep from the manor's entrance and approach the gates. As soon as the blond spotted him, his eyes narrowed and his expression darkened into one of disgust and suspicion. Harry grimaced lightly, wishing he could use his Empathy to feed Malfoy hints of trust.

The Doppelgänger only had a sliver of the ability, but Harry refused to attempt to use it, simply because he could lose grip on the Doppelgänger's mind.

" _Potter_ , I had thought you were in the Dark Lord's office."

"Your nose healed nicely," Harry drawled, leaning against the stone pillar next to the gates. "Only the best medical treatment for a Malfoy, no?"

"When the damage is caused by a Muggle infliction, any injury is easily erased and forgotten." Lucius stopped in front of the wards, appearing as if he would rather kiss the ground a Muggle walked on than allow Harry entrance. "I ask again, what are you doing here, Potter?"

Harry's lips quirked.

His Doppelgänger was currently compliant, most likely curious to know what was going on and how it would unfold. "Riddle wants me in his office," Harry growled lowly, playing the act of an exasperated man forced to follow directions. "I had to check in at work earlier this morning but our _business_ has not concluded as of yet."

Lucius' eyes narrowed further as he considered Harry. Before long, a smug smirk lifted his lips.

"It didn't take too long to control you. Pity, I would have thought you'd put up more of a fight." Malfoy skillfully moved his curtain of blond hair over his shoulder in a surprisingly non-feminine way. "Though, it shouldn't come to a surprise, considering what information he has over your head."

Time was passing and Harry was growing impatient. Nevertheless, he refused to let it show on his expression.

"Careful, Malfoy, so far Riddle hasn't warned me away from harming his followers." He pushed off from the wall, his steps stumbling just slightly as the Doppelgänger struggled against him. "Are you going to show me through? Or should I let Riddle come to me?" He grinned broadly, showing his teeth. "Because I certainly wouldn't mind it if Riddle had to come searching for _me_."

The blonde's eyes were still narrowed but he reluctantly reached out and pressed his hand against the wards. They glimmered before the gates opened for Harry. " _I_ will show you to his office and keep an eye on you until he is back from the Ministry."

He pointed his wand at Harry, apparently having attained a back-up wand. His original one had been sliced in half by Harry's dagger.

It was clear that Malfoy didn't know about Harry's double, his Doppelgänger. Riddle most likely hadn't had the time or the sense to tell his followers that there were two Harry's walking around Britain. In fact, he didn't know if Riddle believed Harry had created a Doppelgänger or used another sort of Charm.

Evidently, Riddle hadn't seen it as a threat and it was understandable that he hadn't. Doppelgängers weren't usually controlled through a mind link by their creator, but Harry had taken special liberty of making his own.

As Malfoy led Harry inside the manor, the younger wizard kept close attention to their path.

Without major incidents with the Doppelgänger, Harry finally came to a stop in front of a closed door. Through lowered lids, he eyed Lucius' drawn wand, mentally scoffing at the idiot. Malfoy liked to boast that Muggle's were inferior to wizards. And while that was the case the majority of the time, wizards were also far more ignorant and arrogant when it came to survival.

The blonde's arm was extended and in close proximity to Harry. It would take a second to twist that arm, far quicker than what it would take for Malfoy to utter a curse.

He stood stationary as Malfoy unlocked the door to the office. As the door clicked open, Harry felt his adrenaline kick in. Was Riddle already there? Had his body been moved? Disturbed? Or worse, would he be able to transfer his consciousness back to his real self?

Malfoy pushed open the door, taking his eyes off Harry just briefly to glance inside the office. As soon as his eyes took in the bound and slumbering Harry Potter, the man's body tensed and twisted hate and confusion flickered across his face.

Harry smirked, reining control of the Doppelgänger's body and attacking. He gripped Malfoy's wrist, twisting it around completely and yanking the man's arm out of its socket. Malfoy roared in pain and dropped his wand.

At the sight of the unconscious Harry Potter, the Doppelgänger began to fiercely resist Harry's control. It made Harry's movements sluggish as he reached down to collect Lucius' fallen wand. Unfortunately, Malfoy took that moment to embrace the Muggle art of combat and kicked him squarely in the face, breaking his glasses. Harry grunted, pushing the Doppelgänger's consciousness away before grasping Lucius' leg.

Using his pent-up strength, he forcibly flipped Malfoy around and slammed the man against the ground face first.

His fingers fumbled with Malfoy's wand, but he was able to get a slack hold on it. His mind was acting quicker than his resisting body and it made his vision spin. The shattered glasses on his face didn't help matters either.

" _Immobulus,"_ he slurred, aiming for Merope's portrait. It missed and she quickly raced to escape the portrait. _"Immobulus!"_ Luckily, this time his wavering aim had hit her portrait and she froze.

Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy, smirking and frowning at the same time. The blond hissed, raising to his feet and lunging for Harry.

" _Stupefy_ ," Harry murmured.

The man went down, and before the Doppelgänger attempted to gain control again, Harry magically sealed all the doors in the office with the exception of the one currently open. Riddle would receive a nasty surprise when he tried to enter through his Ministry office.

He groaned as the Doppelgänger attacked his mind again. The bloody thing!

Landing on his knees, Harry began to lose whatever grip he had over the Doppelgänger. His mind floated for a moment, lost in limbo. For a second, he lost his identity, his purpose, he didn't know he had an existence. And when he thought he'd never be whole again, he was suddenly forced back into his own body.

" _Fuck_ ," Harry growled, jerking awake and staring at the Doppelgänger across the room. His breath was erratic and he knew there was no point in trying to convince the Doppelgänger to release him. The Doppelgänger was already stumbling up from the floor and pointing Malfoy's wand at him.

"I am your creator, damn you," Harry breathed darkly. "You bend to _me_."

He reached out again, refusing to be thrown from his own creation's mind. The link was shredded, but it was still there. He vowed this would be the last time he would do anything half-arsed again. The Doppelgänger resisted, but eventually fell to its knees, unable to slip past Harry's control.

Crawling across the floor of Riddle's office, Harry shakily reached for the bindings around his unconscious body's ankles and wrists. He froze the magic into ice-like particles before shattering them. The magic had been strong, there would have been no way he would have been able to escape them without magic.

As soon as the bindings fell to pieces on the floor, Harry's consciousness leaped away from the Doppelgänger's mind and into his own. It felt _wonderful_ to be in his own body again, with complete control over his limbs. He stood up from the chair, stretching his body like that of his Animagus form.

Through critical eyes, he watched as the Doppelgänger stood up, the wand in his hand the only defense.

"Who are you?"

Harry frowned, feeling… feeling a bit remorseful. There was no way to reverse the creation of a Doppelgänger, no matter how much the idea appealed to him. And he couldn't just let the Doppelgänger wander. He'd created the Doppelgänger in his moment of desperation. Now he had to deal with the consequences.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, taking a step closer to his double.

Green eyes blinked in confusion behind broken glasses. "For… for what? Who _are_ you?" The Doppelgänger raised his wand, a familiar stubborn tick to his jaw.

Closing himself off, Harry reached out and twisted the Doppelgänger's arm as he had done to Malfoy. "I really am, sorry for creating you and taking your life away." He placed his hands on either side of the Doppelgänger's head and twisted sharply, breaking the neck instantly.

The body fell to the ground, broken and dead. Harry stood above it, staring down at the mirror-image of himself. At the time, he hadn't really thought of the Doppelgänger as another human being. It had been a mere convenience in his plans to thwart Riddle. But he _had_ taken a man's life to create this, albeit a tainted man, but a man who hadn't proved his wrongdoings before Harry killed him. There hadn't been proof of his taint.

He breathed deeply, rolling his neck and staring at the ceiling. His face then hardened and he stepped over the Doppelgänger's and Malfoy's fallen form. The man had been tainted. He'd been tainted like the rest of them.

Just like _them._

Pausing in the doorway, Harry turned back around, grabbing Malfoy's fallen wand on the ground. _"Accio_ Harry Potter's wand and dagger _."_ He hadn't expected to see the items, but surprisingly enough, they flew at him from behind Riddle's desk.

Dropping Malfoy's wand, Harry caught both items in each hand. He cast a sweeping look around Riddle's office before escaping the room.

It was almost disbelieving at how empty the manor was as he traveled down the stairs and out the front door. In fact, he kept his guard up as he approached the gates, expecting something or someone to attack him. Yet, as he pushed past the gates, free of the wards and free of Riddle, he was left unscathed.

Harry clutched his wand in his fist, Apparating directly to his flat. He would need to firecall the office and inform them that he was _sick_. He needed a day or two to brace himself before going back to reality.

Reality, a life full of masks, deceit, and false gratification.

Harry landed on his feet in his living room, looking toward the kitchen. Before the voice greeted him, he was already stiff and ready, his senses having identified the intruder.

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter. I truly _am_ impressed."

He turned marginally, giving Riddle a look of blank contempt. The man sat on his sofa, paging through a photo album, the very same one Harry had stuffed beneath the piles of untouched books. Seeing the photos upset him more than Riddle's presence. Nonetheless, he kept his expression clear as he twirled his dagger between his fingers.

"Somehow, I'm not even surprised to see you here," he said dispassionately.

Crimson eyes finally looked up and a snake-like smile stretched the man's lips.

Harry readied himself mentally and emotionally, knowing this might be one of his largest battles yet.


	10. Chapter Ten

**10\. Chapter Ten**

**_1980_**

" _I can't do it, Lily. I'll have you let you go."_

" _No, you can't do this," she begged, protectively cradling her swollen belly. "James and I are having a child soon. Please…"_

_Parker Quills shook his head at the young woman. A small bit of pity creased the edges of his eyes as he watched her plead. "The Department caught you ingesting and brewing unlicensed potions." His gaze flickered to her pregnant belly. "And with a child, Lily, that can't be done. Who knows what effects the potion could have on the unborn child?"_

_He didn't agree with the Department's decision of letting Lily go from the Unspeakables._

_In all truth, he was more curious to know what side affects her potion_ could _have on her child. Parker was a genius and an inventor, after all. Just as Lily was. He couldn't fault her for what she had done. They were meant to create new things, to stretch the bounds of magic._

_Her long red hair pooled over her shoulder as she bowed her head. For a long moment, she ran her fingers over her stomach. "I would never put my child in harm's way. I told them that, Parker." Green eyes looked up at him imploringly. "Did Undersecretary Riddle sign off on my termination? Or did the Minister?"_

_Parker sighed. "The Department did, Lily." He relented under her sharp stare. "The Department sent your release papers to the Undersecretary, yes. But Tom Riddle is new to his position, Lily. Being directly under the Minister is difficult work." He was aware of Lily's less than favorable view for Tom Riddle. Parker didn't understand why. Riddle was a good man. "I highly doubt Riddle much less looked at those papers. He probably signed them without reading the entirety of the report. Maybe you can send him a petition or go to him directly? I'm sure he would listen—"_

" _And then I would be in his debt. No thank you," she replied curtly._

_As she began walking from the Department of Mysteries, Parker spluttered, hating to see her go so defeated. "America!" he called after her. When she paused in her retreat, Parker jogged up behind her. "America's Department of Mysteries is less restricted than Britain's. With your sharp mind, I'm sure they will pick you up. It's only a quick Floo away. Even your husband can stay here for his Auror work."_

_Lily smiled softly, reaching over and pressing a hand against Parker's face. "Thank you, Parker."_

_He closed his eyes, revealing in the caress. Lily was a woman who carried such enthralling warmth with her. Men were hopelessly drawn to her beauty, to her intelligence. Even with Parker's one-track mind involving his pet projects, he still had time to adore Lily._

_When he opened his eyes, she had gone._

**. . Dreams . .**

"Dorea and Charlus Potter," Riddle claimed, his voice pitched high in mock remembrance.

He easily slid the photograph from the album and waved it at a motionless Harry. His grandparents smiled back at Harry and waved. "I always found it fascinating that Dorea supported the marriage between her pure-blood son and a Muggleborn. She was six years ahead of me at Hogwarts."

Riddle peered at the photograph. "I simply feel so old."

"Maybe because you _are_ old." Harry continued to twirl the dagger between his fingers, the only sign of his agitation. He didn't want Riddle looking at those photos, snapshots of the past and the painful memories they brought with it. "I suppose because you wear glamours to appear younger, you sometimes forget how old you truly are. Then again, forgetfulness is also a sign of aging."

Riddle tsked, placing the photograph back in the album. "Youngsters nowadays don't hold any respect for their elders." He flipped another page, his eyes critical and observant as he gazed at each photo. "Photographs are worth a thousand words," he quoted. "I can see that you loved your parents dearly, but held a special bond with your mother."

Lily, _mum._ Harry exhaled lowly, his expression slate.

"Says the man who has a portrait of his mother in his office."

"Touché." Crimson eyes snapped toward Harry. A thin smile then crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Mothers always find a way to be the most prominent figure in their child's life, don't they, Harry?" He continued to stare at Harry, analyzing him closely. "Despite their faults, we love them and honor them. They can sway us in many ways. Amazing, really, that a mother can have a direct influence on the type of man her son becomes."

Riddle turned back to the photographs. "Pity you lost your mother at such an impressionable age. Eighteen? Nineteen? To others, you would have already reached adulthood, but you were just becoming a man. And to think, you lost your father at the same time."

The dagger slipped into his palm and Harry flung it across the room with sharp accuracy. The blade gleamed as it passed an open window before embedding sharply into the wall next to Riddle's head.

The man paused, startled, but easily veiled it.

"And I turned out to be capable enough, imagine that," Harry informed coldly. Snapping his fingers, the dagger flew back into his open palm with a smart _smack_. "Next time, I _will_ aim for your head."

The Minister only smiled, staring down at the album. Harry observed him narrowly before his eyes took in the stack of books Riddle would have had to go through to get to the album.

He suddenly turned rigid as he coolly assessed his flat. The changes would have seemed inconspicuous and hardly noticeable to the average man, but to Harry, who kept sharp and strategic order of his things, knew his items had been _touched_ and _moved._

His jaw clenched and his arm holding the dagger fell at his side. His fingers began twitching at the sheer invasion of his flat.

His things had been _moved._

Breathing in deep, he rolled his neck and looked back at Riddle. The man had seemed so casual and expecting when Harry had shown up, as if he had _known_ Harry had escaped. But that couldn't be possible. Riddle had been here for a good while. And Harry only used a few minutes to escape.

It was very possible that Riddle hadn't expected Harry to return to his flat. In fact, he probably was taken aback when Harry had Apparated inside. Only, he had covered up his unease with stunning simplicity and causality. But that left the question as to why Riddle had been here in the first place. Glancing down at the photos in the man's lap, Harry imagined Riddle had come here to find something he could use against him.

Something personal.

That only meant that Riddle _hadn't_ known Harry was _Custos_ until last night's trap.

The man may have had his suspicions, but he didn't have certainty. If he had known, he would have been at Harry's flat long ago, prepared for their first meeting with incriminating blackmail. While Riddle possessed blackmail from his knowledge of _Custos'_ identity _,_ even the Dark Lord knew he needed _more_ to gain an upper hand.

Feeling recharged, Harry smiled broadly at Riddle.

"You'll need more than a photo album to get anything on me." He rocked on the balls of his feet before taking a few steps toward the sitting Dark Lord. "Unfortunately for you, I don't keep anything worthwhile in my home." Tapping two fingers against his temple, he leaned closer to Riddle. "It's all here."

Dark crimson eyes rolled from the photos and up to Harry's looming face. The man's pupils were slit, giving him a far more menacing look than the rest of his appearance. He was watching Harry, holding his gaze and seemingly staring straight through him.

Harry stared back, bracing himself. The man would say something calculating, scathing, most likely—

"You were simply a _doll_ as a child, Harry."

Harry deadpanned, only for a second, before piercing the album with his dagger. The blade's point dug through the entire book and teased the man's crotch. Riddle's plan was to anger him, and while it was working, Harry would keep his voice steady and his expression fair.

"You're good at acting on your toes, Riddle, I'll give you that. But you're not entirely too smart. What was your angle in leaving my wand and dagger in your office? It was entirely too easy to escape and too easy to set your mother's portrait aflame."

It was only a second, only the briefest of flashes, but it was there. Harry watched hungrily, loving the disbelief and fury that clouded Riddle's eyes at the mention of his mother going up in flames. Merope was most definitely Riddle's weakness. Even in death, the woman held his highest regard.

Riddle was a mama's boy. How… endearing. Harry wondered if Riddle was thinking of running back to his manor just to make certain Merope was still intact.

Amusing, indeed.

"I would skin you alive," Riddle said quietly, the threat clear in his tone.

"Does it bother you?" Harry started, curling his fingers more firmly around the hilt of the dagger. "That you've spent months chasing after me, and yet, you're no closer finding anything than you were originally? In fact, I'd say I know more about you than you can possibly know about me." He leaned closer, reversing their positions from earlier this morning. His lips were a mere breadth away from Riddle's and the man certainly wasn't moving away. "I already know your Achilles heel."

"You're underestimating me largely." Riddle leaned even closer, forcing Harry to inch backward. "I have your entire fate in the palm of my hand."

"Oh, so you assume." Harry tugged the dagger towards himself, effectively ripping the album away from Riddle's grasp.

He cradled the album, holding it in place as he yanked the blade from its pages. Only minimal damage, but it didn't matter, Harry never wanted to look at it again.

He stepped away from Riddle, throwing the album back on top the stack of books. Pressing his leather-clad fingers against the blade of his dagger, Harry began rubbing off the specks of dried blood. "You know I'm _Custos_." His sharp green eyes glanced at Riddle when the man stood up. "I don't know what your plans are regarding that bit of knowledge, but I can assure you, you won't be able to manipulate me with it."

"Again, you're making assumptions. I already have my plans bundled nicely."

He took a step closer, causing Harry to zero in on the man like that of a hunter watching his prey. The Dark Lord was still dressed in his Minister ensemble, but his appearance was reverted back to his younger self. He had left his cheater glasses on, but they did nothing to dull the intensity of the red eyes.

"You assume I don't know anything about you, but I know you well enough. I ensnared you easily, didn't I?" Riddle was walking near Harry, but he was also curling away.

The man was circling him.

Harry angled his head toward the floor, keeping his eyes on the carpet, yet keeping his senses open to the circling man. If Riddle attacked, Harry would be ready. "It was a straightforward trap, Riddle, nothing to be too smug about. I simply made an error."

"So you can acknowledge your mistakes. That is certainly reassuring." He stopped directly behind Harry, his face inching closer to the younger's exposed neck. "But we both know that if Macnair wasn't as 'tainted' as he was, you would have never fallen for that trap. So my plan to capture you wasn't as elementary as you think, was it?"

Harry tore his eyes away from his spot on the carpet and leveled Riddle a blank look. "Who told you I was an Empath?" He suddenly froze as soon as the question left his mouth. "Snape," he intoned darkly.

With the exception of Dumbledore and his parents, who were all dead, Severus Snape was the only one who really knew the depth of Harry's ability. Ron, Ginny, and Sirius only believed Harry had a simple attunement to other's emotions.

Of course, Hermione was also another individual who now knew the extent of Harry's ability. But he didn't think Riddle had looked into her mind. It had to be Snape.

"Ashley Locke."

Hating to be taken off-guard, Harry frowned, searching his mind for the name. It sounded vaguely familiar, but…

"Slore's victim? The woman?" he inquired, remembering reading about her in the _Prophet._

How could she have possibly known that he was an Empath?

"Kingsley interviewed her. She told him that she felt 'safe' with you, that she was overcome with a sense of trust with you. I came to the conclusion that _Custos_ must be an Empath. After all, how could he possibly make his victims smile like that in the throngs of such pain? How could he know for certain that his victims were guilty of such crimes?" Riddle supplied. "I was suspicious of you from the start, so I merely confirmed with Severus that Harry Potter was also an Empath."

Harry's gaze drifted to the left of Riddle and he stared at nothing in particular. He had believed he hadn't left anything behind for the Aurors to incriminate him. However, Riddle was quick to come to a conclusion regarding his Empathy. Harry's only saving grace was that there weren't many people who knew of his ability.

Even if Kingsley had come to the same conclusion as Riddle, he wouldn't be able to find a citizen in Britain who was an Empath as powerful as _Custos_ unless he asked the right person.

"You didn't know I was _Custos_ for certain until the very end," Harry pressed. He noticed Riddle had continued his slow and lazy circling. The tension was growing and both men were itching to show the other who held the higher ground. Harry would be ready to meet whatever Riddle threw at him. "Why were you so bloody persistent?"

Riddle flashed his teeth. "Because I'm never wrong."

Harry's nostrils flared and he tightened his fingers on his dagger. What he wouldn't give to drive his blade through the man's heart. Harry knew he was arrogant, but Riddle was more so.

"Careful, Tommy, you don't want to jinx yourself."

And then the tension grew taut before snapping. Riddle lunged and Harry readied for the attack. The man reached for his face, but Harry grabbed his wrist before it came in contact with him, twisting it down and away from him. He then forced the cold dagger against Riddle's exposed wrist, pressing the sharp edge against the vulnerable skin that covered the bundle of veins and arteries.

Instead of appearing fearful, Riddle looked positively _ecstatic._ His wandless magic flared, eagerly encircling Harry's ankles and torso. Without much exertion, Riddle pushed Harry's back into the wall, magically binding him.

Harry grimaced as his dagger slipped from his fingers. He may overpower Riddle with physical attacks, but Riddle was still larger and he was still more powerful when it came to magic. And yet, wandless magic certainly wasn't something that was unstoppable.

He had wanted to wait to reveal all his cards, but he just couldn't stand looking at the man's smug expression any longer. And he most certainly couldn't stand being pinned submissively to the wall or to a chair.

While his torso may have been pressed forcibly into the wall, his hands were free, a large mistake on Riddle's part. Or maybe the man had left his hands free because he wanted Harry to fight further. No matter the reason, as soon as the man came within distance, Harry encircled his left hand around Riddle's right elbow, pinching the brachial artery. His other hand curled around Riddle's neck and pressed into the jugular vein.

"Funny thing about human anatomy," Harry breathed as Riddle's wandless magic disappeared suddenly from his torso and legs. "Muggles and wizards truly are built differently."

Riddle was taken aback and he struggled against Harry, using his left hand and cupping the younger's jaw. The man was too shocked to achieve anything substantial and Harry continued to press the artery and vein, relishing this feeling of power.

"Wizards have a magical core attached to their heart. Of course, if a Muggle were to look inside a wizard, they wouldn't be able to distinguish the core from the rest of the heart." Harry considered Riddle, watching the man try to control his reactions. "If you apply even the slightest pressure against the jugular vein and the brachial artery at the same time, you can cut of a wizard's magical core. You'll have to determine the wand arm, of course, but it's relatively easy. What is it like, having no magic, Tom?"

Crimson eyes watched him. Somehow, their earlier panic had morphed into hunger. Riddle then curled his left hand more firmly around Harry's throat, as if trying to mimic what Harry was doing to him. He took a step closer, leaning himself completely against Harry.

"You asked me what made me so persistent that you were _Custos_ ," the man whispered hoarsely through Harry's unrelenting hold. "Your mask slipped that day in your office and I saw a worthy adversary. I refused to let you go."

Harry chuckled lowly, pleased with the response. Something pleasant twisted low in his stomach and he released Riddle before he could pinpoint the sensation. He pushed the man away, tearing the long-fingered hand away from his neck. They both inhaled deeply and assessed the other, knowing they were at a stalemate.

For now.

"What do you want, Riddle?" Harry inquired calmly, picking up his dagger and pushing past the taller man. "Do you want to turn me into the Aurors? Or do you want to control me?"

"If I have to pick one or the other, I suppose I'll choose the latter," the man replied dryly. Riddle's magic then flickered in delight at finally being existent once again. An ice-like tendril licked Harry's heels but refrained from doing anything further. "I want you to work for me."

Entering the kitchen, Harry rummaged through the fridge, paying no heed to the Dark Lord in his living room.

Work for Riddle? As much as he hated to admit it, the idea _did_ intrigue him. It meant Harry could be closer to Riddle, closer to his mere presence. The tension between them was deliciously plausible and stimulating. It would be lovely to be around someone who would always challenge him and amuse him.

But it was also nonnegotiable. There was no way in hell Harry would ever work for the man, simply because he didn't answer to anyone, especially Riddle.

He grabbed the half-eaten sandwich and tore into it. He hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon and his stomach was painfully empty. "And what would you have me do?" Harry wondered cheekily. "Kidnap the Muggleborn children from their home? Or maybe I could be the one to stage their deaths?"

Now that he thought back to Riddle's proposal to separate the Muggle world and Wizarding world completely, he wondered what he was going to do about it. He certainly couldn't stand by and allow Riddle to tear families apart like that. Muggleborns had every right to stay with their Muggle parents.

"Amusing," the Minster praised. "But we'll stick with something we both know you're good at for now. Killing."

This caused Harry to pause. He swallowed dryly, throwing his sandwich down on the kitchen table as he leveled Riddle with a grave look. "I am no assassin, nor am I a mercenary for hire."

Riddle made an 'awing' gesture. "I apologize, I thought you would prefer the term _assassin_ as opposed to a serial killer." He cocked a shapely eyebrow. "Or do you not consider yourself a serial killer either, Harry?"

"I'm neither." He turned his back on Riddle. "Judging from the rosy bunch of cult-followers you already have, I'm sure you can find a suitable assassin amongst them."

"My followers have their talents and their specialties. Most of them can easily wave their wands and mutter the words ' _Avada Kedavra'._ But I'm not looking for a simple killer. I'm looking for an intelligent fighter who can use multiple resources to accomplish his task. You have a remarkable way to stalk, hunt, and execute your target without detection. Not many are as graceful as you."

Harry wondered how many times he referred to his killings as 'graceful'. He had never outright called the killing itself graceful, but he had admired the process, the hunt. It was an exhilarating feeling for him and it was even better knowing the end result would get rid of one less monster in this world.

But he had never expected someone else to admire his work.

"No," he said firmly, turning back to Riddle. "I don't like you. I won't work for you. And I don't kill simple politicians who end up pissing you off." He petted his sandwich, wishing his Doppelgänger hadn't eaten the other half of it. It was surprisingly good. "Is that all you wanted to discuss?"

Riddle took a step further into the kitchen, his expression impassive. His crimson eyes hardly ever wavered from Harry since their scuffle against the wall. "You'll work for me," the man said airily. "But I'll make it worth your while."

Harry frowned. "Enlighten me then."

The Dark Lord pulled out a seat at the kitchen table, motioning Harry to sit. When the younger wizard refused to make even the slightest move, Riddle sat down himself, waiting patiently for Harry to do the same.

"We're both adults, are we not?" the older man mocked.

Reluctantly, Harry sat across from Riddle, staring at the Dark Lord.

Playfulness aside, he had to tread carefully around Tom Riddle. Riddle wouldn't merely rub it in that he knew Harry was _Custos_ and then simply walk away. There was going to be repercussions of Riddle knowing what he did. It was obvious the man had ulterior motives. If he didn't have his own agenda, he would have helped the Aurors in capturing Harry.

Riddle tugged at his sleeves before clasping his hands on top the kitchen table. He sized Harry up, most likely not finding anything past the blank slate. "I am aware of your… taste preference when it comes to your victims. You can be assured that your targets will be tainted quite thoroughly, perhaps more. They will be high-profiled men and women who have committed immoral acts or have made others—"

"Do their work for them?" Harry interrupted impatiently. He shook his head once, his fingers twitching in anxiety. "You don't understand my morals, Riddle. I eliminate trash who kill innocent men and women _themselves_ and never get convicted. I kill the men who rape children repeatedly and walk away from it. I don't kill politicians who make other people do their dirty work. If that were the case, then you would be six feet under by now, wouldn't you?" He gave a fake smile. "Despite that strong Occlumency barrier you have up, we both know what a corrupt person you really are."

"I wonder… who is more corrupt, you or me?" Riddle leaned against his side of the table, peering at Harry in curiosity. "What makes you different from the men you hunt, Harry?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry hissed, hating those words.

They were remarkably similar to what Hermione had said to him that night.

"Erik Slore targeted healthy-looking men and women. Estella Zabini hunted men with money. Albert Kinley hunted young girls with blonde hair. Harry Potter hunts after men and women who are particularly _tainted_." Riddle paused, his expression oddly serious. "I don't see much of a difference there, Harry. In the end, all of you are killers, serial killers with specific preferences."

Underneath the table, Harry's fingers tapped relentlessly against his legs. It took a great deal of willpower to hold his temper and keep his expression clear. Hermione had tried to tell him the same thing. Yet somehow, he could deal with her tears more than he could deal with Riddle's utmost curious and calm expression.

He didn't want to hear this. They didn't understand. No one did. How could they stand there and judge when they weren't suffocated by the taint? By those immoral emotions?

They couldn't _taste_ how vile it was.

"Get out," Harry whispered darkly. "Go ahead and turn me into the Ministry. I'd rather rot in the cells of Azkaban before I even consider your proposition."

Riddle held up a hand in surrender, backpedaling and soothing the conversation. "You've mistaken me. If your friends found out you were _Custos,_ they would most likely reprimand you, hate you. They don't understand quite like I do. Not everyone is as white and black as they like to think. I have no qualms about murder. I only have a problem with people who blindside their killings. You like to pretend you kill for the sake of the Wizarding world, but that's not the case, is it?"

"Spare me the moral talk, Riddle."

Cocking his head to the side, Riddle smiled darkly. "You are no hero, Harry. You are a killer. You enjoy it."

Harry pounced forward in his chair, leaning his stomach against the table. He didn't want to hear it. "I said spare me the moralities. If you have a proposition, then tell me. Otherwise you can leave."

Riddle didn't appear displeased when Harry continuously stopped his intended discussion. Instead, he appeared satisfied, as if Harry had confirmed whatever it was he was scheming. Nonetheless, he dropped the subject entirely and picked up where he left off earlier.

"The targets I would have you pursue are confirmed to be the source of genocide and other crimes. You'll have no problem fitting them into your preferred category of victims. In fact, I'd think you'd enjoy the challenge their high-profile security would have to offer."

It wasn't that he was agreeing to Riddle's proposition in the slightest, but Harry wanted to make one thing clear.

"I wouldn't be a simple dog, Riddle. I _would_ be able to view the evidence of their wrongdoings and decide for myself if they warrant any further action."

Riddle didn't bat an eyelash. "Of course," he conceded. His expression was hard to read, save for his madly amused eyes.

Harry leaned back against his chair, scrutinizing the unruffled Dark Lord. That was a lot of power Riddle would grant him. That grant of power could mean two things, really. Riddle had other pressing needs for Harry other than a mere assassin. Or Riddle was merely lying and Harry wouldn't get to view the evidence of the victims' wrongdoings.

Whatever game Riddle was playing, Harry wanted no part in it. "While it is tempting to know what goes on in Minister Riddle's scheming life, I'd still have to decline."

Silence stretched between them and both men gazed at the other in perfect indifference. Harry wasn't an idiot. He knew Riddle could do a lot of damage to him now that he knew Harry was _Custos._ In fact, the possibilities were endless and all of the possible outcomes ended tragically. This compromise Riddle wanted to strike up wasn't entirely a bad option, but Harry still refused to work for Riddle unless the benefits outweighed the costs.

"I will teach you Occlumency." Riddle gambled again, throwing another scrap at Harry.

Harry's eyes widened comically and he snickered. "Are you trying to get me to work for you? Because having _you_ in my mind would only be comparable to extreme torture."

"You need to learn Occlumency and only a Master Legilimens can teach you. A Master Occlumens may be able to talk you through constructing a shield, but only a Legilimens can truly assist you, especially an Empath as powerful as yourself." Riddle tapped his fingers against the table in controlled strikes, whereas Harry's fingers were still beating relentlessly against his leg, away from prying eyes.

"I have one last bargain for you."

Pressing a curled fist against his mouth, Harry smiled thinly. "If this last bargain is as compelling as you teaching me Occlumency, then you can forget it, Riddle." He had already tried to get one Master Legilimens to teach him Occlumency.

And that one time was enough.

The Minister hardly found Harry's comment amusing as he pressed forward. "I have endless resources at my disposal. I have contacts in different countries. I even have enough spies in other governments to create an uprising. They can be at your disposal for _one_ purpose."

He hated it, but he took the bait in one gulp. "And what purpose would that be?"

Riddle's eyes gleamed predatorily. And in that moment, Harry knew he was screwed and hopelessly caught in Riddle's web. "I will help you find every last one of your parents' murderers."

Time stood still and Harry stopped breathing. His vision blurred and his fingers twitched uncontrollably. Heat spread across his chest and up his neck and ears. He couldn't find it in himself to veil the slack surprise across his features and he knew Riddle was taking it all in with sharp observation.

_Damn him._

"I thought you might like that."

Harry bowed his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He knew it was an act of weakness, but compared to what he really wanted to do, it was really only mild. He needed to get himself under control. He needed to remind himself that the man sitting across from him was capable of unperformed promises and empty reassurances. This man was dangerous and he could easily turn Harry inside out with a few simple words if he knew how weak he truly was.

Riddle had found out Harry's weakness, while Harry only found a sliver of Riddle's Achilles heel. A woman's portrait seemed oddly tame compared to the crazy mess of Harry's tragedy. And Riddle was playing on the complexity of the situation, promising order and finality.

"How did you know?" Harry asked hoarsely. "I made sure what happened to my family stayed out of the public eye. How did you know there was more than one murderer?" His hands fell to his lap and he stared stonily at Riddle.

The Minister only shrugged indifferently. "James Potter was a notorious Auror, was he not? It would have taken more than one wizard to take him down."

" _Liar,_ " Harry hissed angrily. "Who told you?" The thought of Riddle knowing so much made him vulnerable. _Damn it._ Those crimson eyes watching him held taunting awareness. Riddle knew everything. And the only one to give him that knowledge was a man Harry was beginning to hate more and more.

He stood up abruptly, feeling hot rage.

"No deal." Stalking around the table, he placed one hand on the back of Riddle's chair and another flat on the table. He leaned in close, hinting with his physical proximity that he wasn't afraid of the man. "Go ahead and make my life hell, Riddle, because I don't intend to go down without a fight."

Riddle casually curled his long-fingered hand around Harry's arm, tugging him closer. "Don't be an idiot. You're letting your pride get in the way of common sense." He tsked at Harry's stubborn face. "I didn't want it to come down to this. I can be a dangerous enemy. Until now, I've been generally mild because I _like_ you."

Harry blinked, unimpressed. "Ironic, I've been just as mild."

He stared into the slit-crimson eyes.

Despite the severity of the situation, he felt something giddy stir within his stomach at their nearness.

The man then stood up, causing Harry to lean away. "I will give you a week. Think over my proposition."

He was a good head taller than Harry was and he used it to his advantage. The younger wizard held his ground despite the height difference, not intimidated in the least. Taking advantage of the Harry's stubborn immobility, Riddle reached out and stroked his cheek, his crimson eyes bright.

"You are at a disadvantage. While you and I can play the game well, you need to remember _you_ have others tying you down. You may find their company tedious, but you still have a twisted sense of duty to protect the Weasleys, Miss Granger, and your godfather. Isn't that right?"

Harry slapped away the hand on his face, reluctantly realizing that Riddle was right. If the Dark Lord got serious in making Harry's life miserable, he knew destroying Harry wouldn't be as effective as he wanted. He would make the Weasleys struggle and he would destroy both Sirius and Hermione. As much as Harry found their company unfavorable at times, he still loved them and felt obligated to protect them. This wasn't just a game between Riddle and him anymore. He had other people he needed to think about.

"Think long and hard about your decision, Harry." Riddle made his way over to the front door. "Who knows, you may even enjoy working for me."

"Highly unlikely, you slimy bastard," Harry growled lowly just before Riddle slammed the door shut behind him.

As soon as Riddle Disapparated, Harry gripped the edge of the kitchen table and flung it away from him. He seethed into his cupped hands and fell to his knees. He was tangled completely in Riddle's strings. It would only take a slight jerk from Riddle's hands and Harry would be obliged to follow wherever he led him.

Somehow, this outcome was worse than rotting away in Azkaban.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Paperwork.

It was all Harry was consumed with for the past two days. Coming back to reality wasn't all about masks and socializing, it was about _work_ as well. Harry had only swept the surface of his Doppelgänger's memories involving his workload. At the time, he hadn't thought he would be coming back so soon. He had only been concerned about the Doppelgänger's interactions with people.

With the Doppelgänger's death, it was impossible for Harry to know what the hell he was supposed to be doing at work.

His lack of preparation had earned him a few odd stares, but Harry had been able to catch back up in a matter of hours. That was one positive to working in the Department for Magical Games and Sports. While there was a lot of paperwork and authorizations for games, it wasn't exactly complex work.

Among paperwork, Harry kept busy trying to readjust to Ron and Sirius' presence. He did a fair job keeping up the good humor and slightly troubled personality. After all, he _was_ still reminded of his parents' murder from time to time and Ron and Sirius knew and understood as such. Those brief and fake drawbacks had been his only reprieve, as it gave him an excuse to be silent.

"He's not talking," Sirius murmured quietly to Ron and Harry that day at lunch. "McLaggen could be going to trial for _Custos'_ crimes."

Ron was gapping like a fish and Harry altered his features into wary amusement as the boy turned to look at him.

"Does it surprise you that much, Ron?" he inquired lightly, grinning at Sirius.

Sirius swept a hand through his unruly hair and grinned lopsidedly. "No, really, McLaggen refuses to take Truth Serum and he refused to lend any of his memories." His grey eyes glanced between Ron and Harry. "Even if he isn't _Custos_ , his reluctance to even cooperate makes him look guilty."

And Harry knew it would take a great deal of sacrifice for Cormac to even agree to those terms.

The boy had a few tightly kept secrets that prevented him from cooperating with the Aurors. He wouldn't reveal himself unless he came to the realization that he _would_ be convicted for _Custos'_ crimes. Harry wasn't an idiot, he had targeted Cormac as his scapegoat for the secrets he was harboring _and_ because he was predictable.

It was how he had gotten the boy's wand. It was why he knew Cormac would be silent for quite some time. It was why he had hunted Erik Slore at exactly eight o'clock on Friday evening.

But all good things would come to an end. Cormac was a smart boy. He would realize that the shame that came with spilling his secrets would be far less than the sentence he would receive for being _Custos._ The boy would confess and Harry could go back to hunting his victims.

"I hope you aren't disclosing anything confidential, Auror Black."

Harry grimaced at his food just as Ron and Sirius turned to identify the speaker.

Tom Riddle had been a constant presence in his mind for the past two days. The proposition, the bargains, the consequences, all of it carefully analyzed by Harry.

At first, he played around with alternatives. So far, he only had one plausible option. Could he somehow protect his friends while engaging a small war with Riddle? It could be possible, but Harry's attention would be spread too thin. He wouldn't be able to put as much concentration on Riddle as he wanted to, like he _needed_ to.

With a foe like Riddle, Harry needed no distractions. Having Sirius and the others to protect at the same time would be too much of an inconvenience.

Throughout his scheming, a small voice was always in the back of his head, reminding him that Riddle promised to find his parents' murderer. The small voice was exactly what the Dark Lord had intended when he first showed his cards. He knew Harry would find it hard to resist accepting.

"Not at all, Minister Riddle." Sirius gave a breathless chuckle that faltered at the end.

Harry's gaze flickered up at Riddle, somehow finding it amusing that someone else had to share in his misery of wearing a mask during the day. His amusement was easily doused when he reminded himself _who_ was sharing in his misery. Knowing Riddle, the man probably got some sick enjoyment out of parading around as a friendly and honest politician.

"Ronald, it's good to see you again," Riddle crooned, nodding sharply towards Ron. "How is your training going for the Auror Department?"

Ron's flattery was difficult to taste. Harry tried to focus more on Sirius' feelings of mistrust and dislike.

"It's going decent," the boy replied eagerly, gazing up at the Minister with stars in his eyes. "I have a few months left of training. Hopefully I can hold out until then."

Riddle chuckled good-heartedly. "I'm meeting with Auror Shacklebolt this afternoon. Perhaps I can put in a good word for you. You seem like an honest and hard-working individual. The Auror ranks could use your demeanor."

My, my, Riddle was laying it on thick today.

For a long minute, Ron was silent, struggling for words and turning red with obsequiousness. "Well— I- I would be honored, Minister." His tongue was too tied to get out any more words of sugary overenthusiasm.

"And how are you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry widened his eyes in wonder and his eyelashes fluttered. A wide and sentimental smile stretched his lips as he gazed adoringly at Riddle. "Oh, Minister, I'm doing simply wonderful, thanks for asking." He attempted to mimic Ron in the admiration department, but wondered if it leaned more toward the creepy and sadistic side of it.

Ron was indignant and Sirius was amused. Harry grinned boyishly and went back to his mashed potatoes with extra vigor. They tasted like old parchment to him, but he gave the impression they were particularly delicious today.

"Good to hear, good to hear. It's rare to see you in such a good mood. What has put you in such high spirits?" Riddle was a relentless presence at the end of the table, leaning closer to Harry than the others.

The other occupants in the Ministry lunchroom were peering at Riddle in curiosity, as it wasn't common for the Minister to take lunch in the cafeteria.

"I can only imagine it has something to do with your presence," Harry quipped dryly, earning an approving grin from Sirius.

Riddle laughed deeply, patting Harry on the back. His thumb discreetly stroked the sensitive skin beneath Harry's ear before he cupped the younger man's shoulder possessively. "I wanted to apologize again for my actions earlier this month, Mr. Potter." He shook Harry's shoulder to emphasize each word. "It was unprofessional of me to accuse you of such crimes. Please, if there is anything I can do to remedy what damage I've done, let me know."

_You can start by taking your hand off my shoulder and shoving it up your arsehole, you bloody idiot._

Harry simply smiled pleasantly, nodding in consideration. "Anything, Minister?" He turned to look up at the tall wizard wickedly. "We're holding a Quidditch club for younger children this month. It would be great if you could have a hand in it as well. The kids would love it."

Riddle hated Quidditch. And he most likely hated children.

Harry's intention was to make the man suffer without making it appear as if he were doing it intentionally. Sirius and Ron wouldn't find any fault in his request. Knowing how busy Riddle was, Harry was certain the Minister would find it incredibly inconvenient.

The hand tightened on his shoulder and Riddle smiled pleasantly. "It would be my pleasure." He then released Harry and took a retreating step back. "You three enjoy the rest of your lunch."

Ron mumbled something incoherent after the Minister and all three men watched as Riddle settled down at one of the tables across from them. It was a pure-blood table galore. Usually the pure-bloods found it beneath them to sit in the lunchroom.

Harry stabbed his piece of chicken, musing on Riddle's reaction to his request. While the tightening hand gave way the man's true feelings on the situation, Riddle hadn't even batted an eyelash. Harry wondered what he would have felt if he'd only seen the man's easy agreement for participating at the Quidditch event.

He'd been aiming to make the man suffer. Harry would have felt thwarted if Riddle hadn't reacted the way he had imagined.

It suddenly dawned on Harry that he was going about this proposition with Riddle the wrong way. Why should Harry drag his feet and struggle against working for Riddle? That reaction was what the Dark Lord expected. Riddle _wanted_ to see Harry suffer.

He wanted Harry to struggle, to fight.

What if Harry amiably agreed to work for Riddle as if it were something he _wanted_ to do? As if it weren't a burden, a confinement? Harry could easily imagine Riddle being taken aback. The man would be extremely suspicious and he would be dissatisfied that Harry hadn't given him the reaction he was looking for. He wanted Harry to feel submissive and defeated.

If Harry continued to fight the binds that Riddle put on him, he would just accentuate that Riddle was overpowering him.

After all, if he agreed to Riddle's proposition, he intended to gain as much knowledge on Riddle as possible. He would also use up the man's resources to find his parents' murderers. He could essentially destroy Riddle from the inside out.

Yes, he had a feeling that this could work out very well.

"Hi, Harry," a woman greeted to his immediate right.

Before he could turn, a hand curled underneath his chin and turned his head for him. His body stiffened automatically as a pair of lips pressed against his own. Harry flinched backward, startling Ginny into jerking back as well. Her wide brown eyes looked on the verge of shock and Harry's quick thinking recovered the situation smoothly.

"You startled me." Curling his hands around her fingers, he tugged her forward and placed a chaste kiss on her lips. "I had forgotten you were visiting me today."

And he really, really had.

In fact, this whole situation with Ginny had been placed in the back of his mind. He vaguely remembered finding out his Doppelgänger had rekindled a romance with Ginny. The two hadn't done anything besides sharing a few kisses, but the Doppelgänger had definitely started a relationship with Ginny again.

A romance was definitely not something he wanted right now. Or ever. He didn't _do_ romances. It was a rarity that he experienced sexual urges, and when he was feeling particularly restless, he would perform a quick glamour. Men were his preferred targets, only because he could dominate them quickly enough and never have to worry about the strings attached.

Women though, Ginny especially, would complicate things greatly.

He dated her a few years during Hogwarts and before his parents' death. Afterward, he said it was too difficult and they had parted ways. With Ginny hanging around him, he now lost a good chunk of privacy, time, and sanity. It was vital to get rid of her as smoothly and quickly as possible.

He smiled at her as she sat between Ron and him. He kept one ear open as she began talking about Quidditch practice. He nodded in time and engaged her in conversation when needed.

Meanwhile, he began scheming.

Always scheming.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of child rape, gore, and Harry's temporary slip of sanity.

**11\. Chapter Eleven**

**_ 1996_**

" _She's young."_

_Sirius muffled his laughter behind his hand as he watched James and Lily stare at Remus in shock. It didn't come much to a surprise to hear his little cousin and best mate were having a baby. They had dated for a year. Granted, their relationship was progressing quickly, but Sirius found he wasn't as harried over it as James and Lily, the traditional couple._

" _She's twenty-three, well able to make her own decisions," Remus replied firmly. While his words were confident and his tone strong, his eyes gave way to the battling conflict he was experiencing. "At least, that's what she keeps telling me. Each morning. And night."_

" _Oi, Moony, I thought the wedding came first_ then _the drooling brat," Sirius teased. "Weren't you twenty-years-old when you had Harry, Lily? What's the big deal?" Though, he already knew what had her taken aback. It was the age difference between Remus and Tonks. Personally, Sirius thought Remus was a lucky bastard._

" _She's so young," Lily whispered again, ignoring Sirius scoffing behind her. She recovered after James touched her arm and she blinked at Remus. "But… I'm so happy for you Remus. She brings out the good in you." The redheaded woman took a step forward and embraced Remus tightly. "You will make a great father."_

_James clapped Remus on the back in congratulations._

" _We're engaged," Remus informed, his face bright and the deep shadows in his eyes not so noticeable anymore. "Hopefully we can get married before she starts to show." His hands began to wring. "I'm so nervous. I know she's the right one for me. She makes me feel_ human _, she means everything to me. But what if… what if I hurt her? Hurt her—our child? What if the child… what if it turns out like me?"_

" _Hey," Lily soothed. "We've all known you since you were eleven, Remus. You have_ never _harmed one of us and you will never harm Tonks or your child. And if your son or daughter turns out to be a werewolf, you should be comforted with the fact that Wolfsbane is available." Lily ran a soothing hand down Remus' arm. "Just because you're a werewolf, Remus, doesn't mean you should deny yourself happiness and normalcy… and love."_

_Sirius grinned lopsidedly at Remus when the tawny-haired man glanced his way. Lily truly was the best person to have around in situations like these. Sirius would have just scoffed at Remus' insecurities and offered to accompany him to the pub. With Lily, she could say those things and not get uncomfortable about it._

_He sighed, thinking he needed to get going on his own Marauder heir. The second-generation of Marauders would never be complete without Padfoot Junior!_

**. . Dreams . .**

Harry stood in the stands of the pitch, looking down at the wizards readying for the Junior Quidditch camp.

Things had to be organized, repainted, rebuilt, and set up before the children arrived at the camp. Brooms had to be charmed by age-restricted speeds and the ground needed to be spelled into cushions as soon as someone fell. The camp would run for a week straight during the Holidays, giving the chance for younger Hogwarts students to make an appearance if they so desired.

Age groups ranged from seven-year-olds to twelve-year-olds. The early shift would involve basic flying training techniques to get the younger kids familiar with brooms. The afternoon session would be for the older kids with more games and higher velocity brooms.

The kids always got a kick out of it. And considering Harry was able to convince a few regional professional Quidditch players to run the camp, the kids were able to meet some of their idols. He was sure Ron would be here, giddily jumping up and down at the appearance of the Chudley Cannons.

Originally, the camp had been James Potter's idea. His father often commented on how the Department of Magical Games and Sports should hold an event for younger children to get familiar with the sport. As soon as Harry received his position at the Department, he brought his father's idea to life.

"I think your father would be proud if he could see you now," a voice commented from behind him.

Harry turned, eyeing the short man blankly before a small smile graced his lips.

"Hello, Peter."

Peter Pettigrew matched Harry's smile with one of his own and took it as an initiative to approach. It had been two years since Harry had last seen Peter, and that was at his parents' funeral. Before that, Peter didn't make a habit of visiting his old friends. As Harry remembered, Peter had always been the butt-end of the Marauders' jokes.

When Harry had been around seven, Peter had finally had enough and had left James, Sirius, and… Remus behind.

He hadn't really taken much notice of Peter at the funeral, but now he clearly saw that Peter lost a significant amount of weight. His hair was cut extremely short, his balding hair not as noticeable. Blue eyes were wide and intelligent as they assessed the commotion on the pitch.

"You look well," Harry praised truly, impressed. "What have you been up to?"

Peter smiled in the distance, his hands patiently curled into the pockets of his dark coat. "I started teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts this year." He turned to peer at Harry. "I heard you got yourself a position on the English National Quidditch team as Seeker right out of school. Pity your injury prevented you from continuing. I heard you were brilliant." He motioned toward the pitch. "But I see you've recovered well enough to get a position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

Harry nodded, musing on Peter's sudden appearance. It was odd the man approached him now, years after Lily and James passed.

"How old are you now, Harry? Twenty?"

"Twenty one," he corrected civilly.

Peter studied him closely. "You looked remarkably like James' clone as a child. It seems, with age, you're beginning to resemble Lily far more." He took a hand out of his pocket and motioned to Harry's glasses. "Save for the glasses and the hair, of course."

Harry fiddled with the frame of his glasses. They were more of an accessory now than anything. His vision had been corrected. _Custos_ never needed them and Harry Potter needed them just for the sake of appearing like the old Harry. Truth be told, they were cumbersome and awkward.

"What brought you here tonight, Peter? I'd imagine Hogwarts was let out not too long ago. Stopping by the Quidditch pitch probably isn't on your list of priorities, especially so late at night." He asked it airily and politely, yet suspicion crept into his tone.

The man's face dimmed and he turned back to the pitch. "I've come to deliver a message to you. From the Dark Lord."

His mask slipped and he studied Peter's turned face. "He has you in his web as well, I see."

Peter cleared his throat, glancing at Harry from the corner of his eye. "The Dark Lord helped me see my strengths and improve on them. He taught me to stand alone, that I didn't need James and Sirius. I owe him a great deal." He paused. "He doesn't have me in a _web,_ Harry. He has my firm and unending loyalty."

The man's emotions were overpowered by a firm sense of trust and loyalty; it only added complete truth to his words.

Harry watched Peter closely, now understanding Riddle's overall process of gathering so many allies. The man had to be in his late seventies at least. All these years, he kept up a polite, diplomatic demeanor and formed connections with the people around him. These helpless victims, or potential allies, would form an unbreakable loyalty with Riddle out of deep respect and gratitude.

And that was the strongest sort of bond.

It was what happened with Peter and his insecurities. It was probably what happened with Snape and his problems with the Marauders. Riddle shaped his struggling allies into his ideal followers. And Harry realized that he was another 'case'. Riddle wanted to fix him. He wanted to mold Harry into the perfect solider.

This realization didn't surprise him. He already had a general notion that Riddle was a master manipulator.

"What was the message?" Harry inquired with a clipped tone.

It was Friday, the last day of Harry's grace period. Riddle wanted an answer to his proposition. Regrettably, Harry wouldn't witness the man's face when he countered Riddle's attempt at domination.

"He wants to know your answer regarding—"

"No need to finish that, Peter." Harry smiled broadly. "Tell him I'm looking forward to working _with_ him. I believe this can be a great opportunity for the both of us. In fact, I'm eager to see what kind of work he has for me." He had tried to pitch his voice pleasant enough, the same tone he would likely use in discussing Riddle's impending destruction.

Peter's emotions flared with surprise and he offered a curious smile. "He had predicted you would send me off with a few scathing remarks, but he never said you'd be looking forward to working with him."

"Well, you did inspire me with your story, Peter. If the Dark Lord helped you as you claimed, I'm sure he is a decent man." _Highly unlikely, that bastard._ Harry took a step back. "He will need to come to _me_ about the first assignment. I am rather busy." He looked at Peter from beneath lowered lashes, pondering why Riddle sent Peter of all people. "Why did he send you, anyway?" Harry's lips curled at the edges and he tsked. "He isn't trying to get out of working at the Junior Quidditch camp, is he?"

Peter's eyes widened and he gave a true laugh. "I didn't know he agreed to work at your camp, Harry. Highly amusing, considering I don't remember he had an interest in Quidditch."

"Oh, he doesn't," he said airily as he dismissed Peter with his back. He walked down the stairs of the stands. "He can work the food court."

Peter gave another laugh, oblivious to Harry's malicious smile.

As he did his practiced limp down the stadium, Harry continued to wonder why Peter.

_Why_? Was there a motive on Riddle's part? Or had it simply been a coincidence? Did Riddle actually think Harry would have attacked the messenger? It felt _good_ to know that Riddle had warned Peter about Harry, that he wouldn't be happy with being pressured about working with him. The man would be suspicious, shocked, and displeased when Peter confirmed that Harry was _happy_ to do so.

He shuffled closer to the pitch, his eyes coolly turning to the side to observe a woman sitting on the stands. She turned, catching his eyes.

"Harry," she greeted casually before turning back around to watch the players set up the Quidditch pitch. "I brought you some Earl Grey."

Harry paused on the step level with her bench. "I didn't think I'd see you. Alone." He sat down next to her, accepting the carrying cup of tea. Refusing to sip the tea until he knew if it was poisoned or not, Harry nodded sharply. "Thank you."

Hermione eyed him. "It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking." She sounded disappointed, sad. "We aren't enemies, Harry."

"Aren't we?" Harry murmured, casting his wand against the cup anyway. It glowed a brief white, indication that there was nothing added. "You haven't made that entirely clear, Hermione." He sipped on the strong tea, allowing his eyes to close in pleasure for just a millisecond.

He opened them sharply just as quickly, watching her, observing.

The brunette witch shifted on her bench, curling her cloak tighter around herself in the chilly air. "I've tried to accept the Doppelgänger, but I couldn't. At first, I thought maybe the Doppelgänger would _help_ you heal. Then I started to picture you dwelling alone, completely isolated." She sniffed, staring at the players on the pitch. "You would have fallen further if I hadn't mentioned anything to William Stratton. I didn't know if you would accept my help, so I went to your therapist."

"And what made you realize it was a Doppelgänger, Hermione?"

She turned a steady look on him. "The eyes. You have unnatural eyes, Harry. They're troubled but they have this manically intelligent glow to them, a predator gleam. Your copy was too innocent, even though you two acted relatively the same." Patting her thighs, she shook her head. "It doesn't _really_ matter how I knew. There are larger issues we need to discuss."

He already knew why she was here. Harry smiled thinly and sipped at the tea, wishing he was alone to enjoy such warmth. "McLaggen dug his own grave, I'm afraid. I just gave him a bit of a… nudge."

Hermione pursed her lips. "If he stays in custody and eventually gets convicted of _Custos'_ crimes, will you… will you stop all of this?"

Harry paused in sipping, calmly lowering the cup from his lips in order to observe her closely. Honestly, he hadn't expected her to say something along those lines. He had believed she would disprove of his idea to set up Cormac McLaggen, not _support_ it. Still, he held his expression firmly and only raised his eyebrows.

" _If_ that were to happen, yes, I would most certainly consider retiring from the role of _Custos._ "

Learning forward, she looked at him imploringly. " _Consider_ retiring? Why won't you retire for certain?"

He waved a careless hand. "Terminology isn't important when I already know McLaggen will weasel himself out of the Ministry's hold."

"I will be willing to stack more evidence against Cormac," she insisted hoarsely, as if a great burden was on her shoulders. "I can plant evidence that points to him as being _Custos._ I'm sure you have items in your possession that could lead back to the crime scenes—"

Acidic green eyes dilated and zeroed in on Hermione with sharp attentiveness. "Let me get this straight. You would like me to give you incriminating evidence? Evidence that could very well lead back to _me_ if the right Unspeakable was able to find traces?" He chuckled lowly. "Why don't I simply step inside the Auror Department and wave a flashy banner that claims I'm _Custos_?"

She paled. "No- that's not what I meant, Harry!" Hermione took a steady breath. "You can't even tell the difference between who your allies are and who your enemies are. I'm trying to _help_ you."

Opposite of Hermione's passion, Harry met her with cool calm. "It is an incredible sacrifice on your part to offer up your purity for my sake, Hermione." He swirled the spice and scented tea around in his cup, eyeing her with genuine gratitude. "I suppose it is flattering that you would put your job and reputation on the line in order to help me incriminate Cormac, a friend of yours. However, I haven't gotten this far by putting trust in _allies_. Trust is a fickle thing, who knows how quickly it can break and turn sour."

Hermione clasped her hands together and bowed her head. "You've changed," she whispered. "Even from when I confronted you about all this, there was _still_ a sliver of the old Harry left. Now, I'm not so sure." She refused to look at him as she contemplated this. "You're paranoid and you're bitter."

"I'm smart," he corrected. "As much as I love you, Hermione, I can't be sure you won't start feeling remorse for supporting me. You could turn on me and I would be virtually exposed."

Brown eyes shot towards him. "Are you even capable of _love_ anymore? You seem so cold, so ruthless…"

He tossed his head in agitation. Her words may have once bothered him, but now, he found he couldn't care a less about her opinion of him. "Of course I love you. And Ron, Sirius and Ginny." _That doesn't mean I have to like you_. "But I want all of you to stay _out_ of this. If you are so involved with _Custos_ and if you know so much about it, not only could you be targeted by my enemies, but also the Ministry. I don't want to put you in a web of deceit and lies."

She stood up, her face cool but her eyes emotional. "We are already targeted by proxy, Harry." She then began to climb down the remaining steps of the stands. Before she disappeared, she turned back around. "I hope you'll be able to make it to the Weasley's for Christmas. It could do you some good."

Harry didn't respond, only because she hadn't stayed for an answer.

He frowned at nothing in particular. He wondered why she had seen such a dark energy around him. While he hadn't been trying to keep his mask up in her presence, he hadn't done anything to intentionally ward her away either. Perhaps she was right. Maybe he was changing. He supposed surrounding himself with Riddle wasn't helping matters in the least.

He couldn't find it in himself to worry too much about how he was _changing_. Two and a half years had gone by since he'd had this much fun. With Riddle, Harry felt _alive._ It was enjoyable to interact with someone without the need for masks. It was all about intellectuality and dominance. It was exhilarating.

Harry caressed the top of the plastic cup and watched the retreating figure of Hermione.

Despite Hermione's faithfulness, her knowledge on his identity was becoming problematic. While there _were_ others who knew Harry was _Custos,_ they were all bound to silence out of their loyalty to Riddle.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. It seemed as if he was also relying on Riddle to keep his dogs quiet. And that certainly wouldn't do. Harry needed to be free from chains and he needed to be able to run if the situation demanded it. Hermione's knowledge needed to go, or at least be subdued. And Harry also needed to come up with an escape plan if Riddle ever turned on him, which was a very real possibility.

If that scenario ever came to pass, if Riddle ever turned on Harry, then he would make _certain_ that he tore Riddle apart just as easily. He needed to be prepared.

And he needed to start now.

**. . & Darkness . .**

"What do you mean you _'couldn't'_ find him?"

Luke Noreen pursed his lips, his pulse spiking in response to the Dark Lord's tone. It wasn't loud or demanding, but a cool and composed whisper. Luke took a deep breath, composing himself as he watched the Dark Lord write a letter.

"No, My Lord," he murmured solemnly, clasping his hands together over his lap. His eyes darted to the portrait of Merope and he gave a solid nod in her direction. She only frowned back at him. "Toby Regbo wasn't at the base I had originally thought he was hiding."

Silence met his declaration.

As the minutes ticked by, Luke's attention began to drift. The office seemed especially warm and inviting today. There was a fire lit in the stone fireplace and a serpent coiled comfortably near the hearth. It was a small serpent with bright and exotic scales, beautiful in its own right.

But Luke knew Riddle didn't choose his serpents just for the exotic scales. It was all about the venom and fangs.

The Dark Lord's method in choosing serpents was frighteningly similar to how he chose and bred his followers. Most of the women and men who followed and worshipped Riddle were beautiful in their own right. But what really mattered was how venomous they were. Well-mannered and well bred, for the most part, but viciously wild when the situation demanded it.

Riddle's quill continued to sweep over the parchment with a flourish.

Apparently, the man was pressed for time. Luke felt reassured at the man's distraction, only because he _did_ have something to hide from the Dark Lord. He was loyal to boot to Tom Riddle, he had been for over twenty years, but he was in debt. Riddle's pay couldn't keep his head above the water even if Luke stopped his gambling.

"You are a professional tracker, Mr. Noreen. I pay you a good sum of money to search for Regbo. The man truly can't be _that_ good at hiding, can he? Or have I overestimated your ability?"

Luke held his tongue. It was _Riddle_ who had underestimated Regbo the first go around. "Yes, you are generously paying me, My Lord. But Regbo escaped before I got there. The entire compound was deserted, but there were traces that he had been staying there, along with a good handful of people."

Crimson eyes glanced at him only briefly, but it was enough to make Luke breathless. "This is the fifth time you've turned up empty-handed."

He bowed his head in apology, but in reality, he did it only to escape the piercing stare. "I'm sorry, My Lord. Next time, I promise you, you'll have him in your possession."

"Is that so?" Riddle murmured in interest. "Is that before or after you accept a pouch of gold from Regbo's henchmen?"

Luke startled so quickly, his neck snapped. His mouth turned dry in horror. "M-my Lord…" he inhaled deeply as he watched Riddle stand up from the other side of his desk. "It was only twice, I beg of you!" Luke scrambled up from his chair. "I received a letter from a wizard who worked with Regbo. He paid me in return for stalling my search for him. They _knew_ I was tracking him. When I got too close, they would give me _piles_ of gold."

Riddle chuckled lowly, his steps slow and measured as he took out his wand. His long fingers caressed the wand in lazy strokes as he considered Luke. "You expect me to believe that they would pay you that much gold just to simply… look the other way for a few days? If that were the case, then they could have easily killed you and saved themselves a lot of gold."

The younger man backed away, stumbling on the side of his chair. "They couldn't kill me if they can't _find_ me. I can hide just as well as I can track." Luke held out his hands higher, begging. The wand was pointed at him and Luke knew he wouldn't be able to defend himself against the Dark Lord. "Please, Tom. I _am_ loyal to you, I would _never_ betray you. I just needed the extra money."

The Dark Lord looked unimpressed as he raised his wand, a curse at his lips. _The Killing Curse!_ Luke trembled, panic rising to new heights.

"No! There is _more…_ Here…" Luke dug shakily into his pockets. Before he could pull out the photograph, he caught sight of the satisfied gleam in Riddle's eyes and mentally cursed. The Dark Lord had _known_ there was more. It was all an act. Riddle hadn't intended to kill him; he had just wanted the full story.

He slouched back in his chair, relieved. From beneath his lashes, he watched as Riddle lowered his wand and eventually put it away in his cloak pocket. Though, the tall wizard didn't sit back down, instead, he stood next to Luke, expectant.

"I was also given a side assignment for the gold." Luke sighed, relieved he wasn't in peril. He frowned at Riddle's softly amused expression before digging out the photograph. "Again, I would never betray you, My Lord. In the end, my loyalties will always lie with you." He handed the photograph to Riddle, watching as the man took it gently.

Split-crimson eyes appraised him briefly before looking at the photograph.

The Dark Lord froze, but only marginally.

"What is this?" he asked firmly.

"I was assigned to capture a wizard, My Lord. Harry Potter."

He motioned toward the photograph held tightly in Riddle's hands. It was a photo taken of the young wizard for Luke's identification. But instead of just Harry Potter, Minister Riddle was also in the photo. It was taken at a Quidditch game, Luke imagined. It showed the boy's features perfectly, but he had still been able to identify Riddle as well.

"I was so hesitant to tell you because you obviously know him. But I didn't recognize him as one of your followers, so I decided to accept the job."

Completely blank in emotion, Riddle handed the photograph back to Luke. "What does Regbo want with Harry Potter?"

He stared at the Dark Lord, making sure to keep eye contact. "I don't know, My Lord. Honestly, they didn't give much information. They only said that they had tried to capture him before, but the wizards who had tried all ended up dead."

"Is that so?" Riddle mused, interested. "The boy killed them?"

"No, apparently they didn't even come in contact with Harry Potter before they were dead, or missing. There weren't any bodies left behind. It's like… some invisible guard or something. The boy has some sort of strong protection on him." Luke shrugged. "I'm sure I will be able to sneak past it, whatever it is. I did a bit of research on Potter. He's incredibly young and he works at the Department of Magical Games and Sports." He scoffed. "I don't underestimate my opponents, but I don't _believe_ he will be an issue."

For reasons unexplainable, Riddle gave a snake-like smile. "Indeed," was all the man said.

Riddle stared unseeingly at Luke, appearing pensive. The man then leaned against the side of his desk, right next to a potted flower Luke hadn't taken notice of before. His eyes zeroed in on the flower with sharp interest.

It appeared to be a bright purple and ivory orchid with small stems curling in elegant twists. Luke blinked at it and then looked up at Riddle. Despite himself, Luke flushed hotly at the sharp observation he was garnering from the powerful man.

"Do you like it?" Riddle murmured curiously. He turned only slightly, caressing the square pot with lazy admiration. "It's a magical orchid, very rare and exotic to these lands." He paused, smiling in mock abash. "I seem to have a particular interest in the exotic." He pushed the potted plant closer to Luke. The petals were wide and so painfully beautiful that it was hard to look away. "They say the petals are softer than silk."

Luke stared, his chest tightening. He wanted to touch the petals, to see if they were as soft as the Dark Lord claimed. His fingers twitched, but he stopped himself, looking up at the Dark Lord in inquiry.

A predatory smile stretched those lips and the man's eyes became half-lidded with pleasure. "Go on," he encouraged softly. "I know it's _impossible_ to resist."

Struggling to remain refined, but excited nonetheless, Luke reached forward and pinched a petal softly between his thumb and index finger. As soon as he touched it, a visible fog lifted from his mind.

_They_ say _the petals are softer than silk._ Those weren't words coming from an individual who had touched the potted plant himself.

Warning bells went off in Luke's head as he tore his hand away from the orchid. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough. The petal had fine razor-like needles. They punctured Luke's skin and he gave a soft exclamation as he peered at his lightly bleeding fingers.

"What…" he blinked, his tongue swollen and his head heavy. He grunted, falling from his chair and onto the floor as the blood in his system began to _burn._

Through tearing eyes, he stared up at the Dark Lord. The man was smiling down at him, watching him in fascination. That expression struck fear in Luke, far more fear than the prospect of dying. Darkness curled and embraced the Dark Lord as the man watched him. Luke had heard whispers about Riddle having another side to him, a darkness that chilled his opponents thoroughly. Luke just never thought he'd experience that side of his Lord.

He was faithful, damnit!

"I believe I am a giving and merciful Lord, Mr. Noreen."

Pain. It was everywhere.

Despite this, Luke nodded fiercely. _Yes,_ he was merciful! _Please!_

"I gave you many chances to bring me what I wanted," Riddle tsked condescendingly. "And how do you repay me? You betrayed me, purposely holding off _my_ orders for another. I do not take kindly to my orders being pushed to the side and ignored. More importantly, I do not take kindly to being _played_ by the likes of you."

Luke's vision began to darken and tunnel. He whimpered and trembled on the floor, trying to arch against the pain numbing his system. Through his ringing ears, he heard the Dark Lord begin to hiss. Luke struggled further when the purple and emerald scales closed in on him. He opened his mouth in a silent scream as the serpent lunged for him, its curved fangs bared. They punctured his skin easily and retreated before striking again.

He trembled and shivered.

It was surreal, the pain, the _heat,_ and the way his blood formed a high-spouting fountain. He watched through hazy-eyes, feeling his soul detach from his body. With one last strain, he looked up at Riddle.

The man hadn't looked away since. He was simply _watching_ with blasé interest, his eyes remaining half-lidded with pleasure.

A sinful smile was the last thing Luke saw before everything went black and silent.

**. . Collide . .**

The next morning, Harry had things rolling at the Junior Quidditch camp before the kids showed up. It helped matters that he hadn't been able to sleep. There had been a constant _itch_ in him that refused to cease. His body had been wired last night and it carried over into this morning.

He needed to hunt.

He tried to push the urge away. After all, he was the one in control of his body, not this… hunger.

Being surrounded by so many people had helped suppress the urge. His Empathy got a good workout and drained his energy.

The warm Earl Grey also did wonders to flatline his darker desires. He sipped at it and looked down across the pitch, making certain everything was running smoothly. The professional Quidditch players were in place and instructing the children, doing an impressive job. The kids stared at them wide-eyed, recognizing their favorite players.

Harry could identify Ginny in her Holyhead Harpies uniform and Oliver Wood and Benjy Williams in their Puddlemere United colors. There were even a few of Harry's old teammates from the England National Quidditch team.

He was sure Ron was hiding amongst the parents in the stands, ogling at the few Chudley Cannon players who had the courage to show their faces.

He sat on a tiered platform that overlooked the pitch. Next to him sat a small travel plate full of cheese, summer sausage, and fruit. It was a late lunch for him and courtesy of old Mildred, who was working with Riddle at the food court. She was the head sever at the Ministry cafeteria. She had eagerly volunteered to help Harry when she heard about the Junior Quidditch camp.

Such a sweet, pure lady.

She had been positively _tickled_ when Harry had led Riddle over to the food stand earlier that morning. In fact, many of the parents had gotten a kick out of the infamous Minister of Magic serving them coffee and tea. Riddle had taken it in stride and smiled politely, yet Harry was sharp enough to notice the strain and the promise of retribution in those eyes.

"Such a clever boy you are, Harry," spoke the devil behind him. "To assign me the most degrading position in the camp." The voice spoke directly in Harry's ear, somehow turning the mundane action of whispering into something erotic.

A possessive hand then grabbed his arm and curled greedily around his elbow.

Harry didn't even flinch. Sitting in the dark alcove of the pitch, he had watched as Riddle took leave from the food court before disappearing. He knew the man was searching him out, so it came to no surprise when Riddle found him. He had even heard the man's quiet approach by the rustle of trousers against the cloak.

He turned marginally, forced to do so by the hand on his elbow. A mocking smile twitched his lips and Riddle watched it with cruel scrutiny. "Be happy you weren't assigned bathroom duty," Harry murmured. Sipping at his tea with his opposite hand, he forced Riddle to back away slightly. "And if you push it, you _will_ be assigned cleaning the loos."

Behind his cheater glasses, Riddle's dark brown eyes sparkled. "And if _you_ so much _dare_ to go through with that threat, I will find a way to force you to lick all the bathroom tiles."

Harry frowned, sensing the absolute truth in those words. "Is there a reason you wanted to speak to me, Riddle?" He turned away from the man and looked down at the pitch below. "I don't believe your shift is over with just yet."

The man's unrelenting hand tightened on his elbow before it suddenly disappeared along with the rest of the man's presence. "And yet, _your_ shift is far from over and you have already needed to escape the demands of Harry Potter's good-natured charm." A second later, Riddle casually sat down next to him and slid a photograph across the bench toward him. "Have you ever seen this man?"

Making a show of leaning toward it, Harry bypassed it and picked up a piece of sausage. He chewed slowly, gazing sideways at the photograph. It was an older man with white hair and a short circle beard. Pale grey eyes stared up at Harry, oddly serious and arrogant at the same time.

He grunted, grabbing a grape and popping it in his mouth.

"Is he my first assignment?" Harry inquired lazily.

"I don't believe that question answers _my_ question."

Harry chuckled softly, staring across the Quidditch stadium. "No, I have never seen that bloke in my life." He peered at Riddle. "Is he my first assignment?" he repeated.

Something akin to hilarity crossed the man's features at the question. "Perhaps in the advanced stages of our contract."

Green eyes shot back to the photograph, memorizing every detail of the man. Indirectly, Riddle indicated that this would be a difficult man to catch and kill, which only meant that he _was_ a challenge. Riddle wasn't one to acknowledge someone else's skill unless it was just.

"Who is he?" Harry asked. He lifted his gaze from the photo, watching for any signs of deceit from Riddle.

"Toby Regbo," Riddle supplied, taking back the photo with a clear expression.

Harry exhaled softly, his mind racing. Riddle had supplied the name easily enough. The ease of his answer meant that Regbo wasn't connected to Riddle's past and he had no reason to keep the name for himself. Or it could mean that Riddle was aware of Harry's thinking and supplied the name anyway, just to fuck with him and make everything more complicated. Nonetheless, Harry stored the name and face away for future use.

He chewed a few more pieces of cheese and let the silence stretch and stew.

"I'll bite," he began, "Why did you want to know if I knew the man if he isn't one of my assignments?"

Riddle scoffed softly. "I have my reasons."

"Reasons that clearly involve me." Harry snapped a grape between his molars, intentionally causing a string of juice to splatter towards Riddle. "That's alright, you have your secrets and I have my own." He was aware of Riddle watching him closely, but he refused to show anything on his expression. "Did you talk to Peter?"

A thin smile crossed the man's lips. "I am glad you were able to muster up enough excitement over our proposal, Harry."

_Damn bloody bastard_. Harry hissed. Of course, Riddle would see through Harry's false cheerfulness. No matter, he wasn't going to let Riddle get in his way. "I am curious," Harry started, quickly dousing his irritation. "Why did you send Peter?"

Surprisingly, Riddle didn't see the need to keep this bit to himself. "I thought he would be a good first suspect in locating your parents' murderers. He never liked your father much."

Harry's eyes flashed. "I'm working alone on that—"

"Pity, then you won't use my resources," Riddle interrupted smoothly. "I am not a fool. I will not have you using my contacts and purposely tarnishing my reputation among them." He offered Harry a pointed look. "Trust me, child, when we find your parents' murderers, I will find it pointless to use what I learned against you. I have other things I can hold over your head."

Sitting back against his hands, Harry clenched his jaw and stared at nothing in particular.

It shouldn't have come to a shock to Harry that Riddle would be a constant presence in finding his parents' murderers. After all, it was impossible for Harry to use Riddle's contacts without the man's knowledge. Riddle would know who he was going to and what was discussed even if he wasn't standing next to him. Besides, Harry didn't need to hide anything about his parents' murder.

It was planned torture, simple as that. And it was in the past, everything to do with his mother and nothing to do with him.

It wouldn't hurt to have Riddle know, even though it rubbed Harry the wrong way. Nonetheless, he _needed_ the man's far reach when it came to resources. No matter how much Harry wanted to boast that he could do this by himself, with his own contacts, it would be a painfully obvious lie.

"It was my mother," Harry said smoothly, catching Riddle's eyes.

The best way to adapt with Riddle on this case was to pretend it didn't _matter._

"Pardon me?" the Minister inquired with a cocked eyebrow. "I would have thought your father was a good place to start. He was a rather impressive Auror and he naturally made enemies every day on his job."

Harry gave a humorless grin. "I'm glad you took an interest in my father, _My Lord,_ but they asked _her_ questions. They never asked my father or me anything." He faltered, just briefly, as the memories came screaming back to him. "And no, I don't remember particularly what they asked her. They wanted to know where something was, that's all I can… recollect."

Riddle was watching, waiting, and looking for any signs of weakness. Harry never gave it.

"What was her line of work?"

"Unspeakable."

Riddle actually blinked and he pursed his lips in delight. "Unspeakables are rather intangible. It's no wonder you were unable to gather anything of material."

Harry leaned forward, smirking. "Are you admitting that this is past your capabilities, Riddle?"

Suddenly, Riddle's hand covered Harry's on the bench. The skin contact sent shocks of painful awareness across the both of them, but neither showed even the slightest inclination. The politician's sharp fingernail caressed the skin between Harry's thumb and index finger before curling around the wrist possessively.

"Nothing is ever past my capability, Harry. Remember that."

Harry struck, taking quick possession of Riddle's fingers and bending them backwards until a quiet snap indicated that the joints were near their breaking point. "Don't. Touch. Me." He emphasized each word by bending the fingers further back. "You're an arrogant bastard, you hear me, Riddle? Not everyone turns to putty in your hands."

"I'm counting on you to keep your word on that." The Dark Lord reached for Harry's face with his other hand, but it was knocked away before it could even come in contact. For a brief second, Riddle showed his impatience and his anger. "I would like to know what will make you tolerate my touch. Surely, you have had some inkling that I want you for more than just your hunting ability."

Harry tensed and released Riddle's bent-over fingers. He put further distance between himself and Riddle, coolly sipping at his Earl Grey. Somehow, even his beloved liquid couldn't calm his racing pulse and outrage.

Green eyes cut through the dark alcove and pinned Riddle with a menacing look. "That will _never_ happen, Riddle. Don't ever ask or assume again." He would admit that the tension was palpable between them, but Harry refused to even consider the idea of fucking Tom Riddle. The man wouldn't yield to Harry like that. And Harry certainly wasn't going to yield to him.

They were both alpha men. And that meant that it was impossible to go through with what Riddle wanted.

Riddle made an 'awing' noise. "You want it to remain strictly professional. I can respect that. For today at least."

The dark-haired wizard flashed the Minister a dour look but didn't press the topic.

"Have you figured out my first assignment?" Harry asked tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was suddenly not in the mood for anymore verbal sparring, especially when it just excited Riddle to the point of arousal.

Not like Harry could fault the man. It went both ways. Harry just refused to act on it or even fantasize.

"I have," Riddle concurred, his tone light and victorious, as if he saw Harry's actions as defeat on their previous topic. "This certainly is not the place to discuss sensitive manners. I hope to have you at my manor this week." His attention wavered from Harry as he spied something below.

Or _someone._

Harry turned, noticing Ginny had garnered Riddle's observation. She was currently searching the stands, looking for someone, most likely him. Harry frowned, watching her. He couldn't be too exasperated with her. Ginny wasn't clingy and she didn't expect to be touching him all the time.

She had six older brothers; she acted more like a tomboy than an insecure girl.

She was pure too. Harry wasn't overwhelmed by the taste of taint with Ginny. There were times he felt as if _he'd_ taint her by being close. Still, even when Ginny didn't press to be around him all the time, it was still a thorn to his side and privacy.

And now Riddle was watching her like that of a cat watching an insect skitter across the floor. Focused and speculative. Harry would know. He'd found himself doing it on a few occasions in his Animagus form. Nothing good could come out of Riddle's sharp surveillance.

"I heard Miss Weasley was being considered as a Chaser for the Portuguese National Quidditch Team," Riddle said abruptly.

Harry scowled. "Don't play your games with her."

The Minister rotated his body toward Harry, drawing on his magic. The temperature dropped several degrees as he loomed close, refusing to give Harry an inch of breathing room. His eyes seemed to have a crimson glow to them, even though they were still muddy brown.

Reaching out, he gripped Harry's chin completely.

"I refuse to have anyone standing in this game between you and me. I will not tolerate your attention being distracted by someone of her standing. It's insulting." Riddle released his chin and stood up, easily stepping over the bench as he made his way down the platform.

Harry started to laugh, pleased.

It was fun when he knew exactly what Riddle was feeling, what he was thinking. The man was more possessive than Harry imagined. And while Riddle admitted to _wanting_ Harry, he knew the man wasn't jealous of Ginny. Tom Riddle was simply irked that someone else was demanding Harry's attention. The man was spoiled and he was used to getting what he wanted.

It was… pleasing.

Gradually, he was beginning to know the real Tom Riddle with each interaction. It wouldn't be long until Harry could wield that knowledge against Riddle if the situation demanded it… if Riddle forced his hand. Until then, Harry would enjoy it while it lasted.

**. . Dreams . .**

There had been no indication that it would happen, and maybe that's why it took an unprepared Harry completely off guard.

With the camp beginning to close down for the day, parents were taking home their exhausted children and the professional Quidditch players were leaving. Old Mildred and Tom Riddle were giving out last minute candy to the kids who wanted to spoil their appetite before dinner.

And Harry was making sure everyone stayed in line.

Usually, when he was in a location with so many people, their emotions tended to mirror each other. He could feel the content and the exhaustion. However, the sudden spike of uncontrolled fear and horror caused Harry to whip his head around and scrutinize the Quidditch stadium.

The farewells sent his way fell on deaf ears as he swam through the crowd of people, desperately searching for the individual that was giving off such helpless emotions.

There, across from him, a young child was led by an adult. Warning bells went off in Harry's head as he hurried after them, feeling something dark and horrific stir in his stomach. The man was leading the child into the underground where the maze of offices and locker rooms were located.

They were a few yards ahead of him. As soon as Harry entered the dark tunnel, he lost sight of them.

Reaching down, he grabbed the dagger strapped to his calf. It was more for security purposes than anything. He couldn't kill here, not now. It would be foolish of him to do something so stupid. But the emotions of complete horror and desperation coming from the child affected Harry and he needed something corporeal for defense.

His practiced limp easily transformed into graceful and silent strides as he followed the taste of vulnerable emotions. If he hadn't been an Empath, he would have been unable to track them down. But here he was, crouched down outside a door that led to the showers.

It was then when Harry finally sensed the predator.

The man's emotions had started off choppy and confused, but they were now focused. Harry faltered, falling to his knees and retching on the ground next to him. The man's taint was thick and oily, it was overpowering and so very wicked that it made Harry incoherent for a good few seconds.

He gasped, feeling the foul reach of immoral arousal and sick fucking glee.

"Bend over."

"Please… Uncle… M-mom is going to pick me up soon—"

A hand struck skin. "Bend over. Now."

Harry moaned, unable to block the potent emotions. He struggled to crawl away from it all, to block it all out. For a moment, he was lost in the predator's emotions. He was instantly overcome with the pleasure and foul arousal. He wanted to join in and tear into the small, vulnerable prey. Fortunately, he possessed enough to control to focus his Empathy in the prey's direction.

Instead of foul glee, Harry was overcome with the bitter surrender of complete and utter humiliation and pain.

" _Mum…" Harry sobbed, feeling them on_ him _even if they were around her. Her humiliation was so strong; it made him dizzy with insanity._

He slammed his fist against the closed door, immediately stopping the proceedings.

The demoralizing emotions morphed to surprise, hope, and fear. Suddenly, Harry's crazed need for destruction easily took over any rational side he once possessed. He smiled grimly as he melded into the wall next to the door, listening as the man quieted down the crying child and warily approached the door.

As soon as the door opened a crack, Harry slammed his fist in the man's face. Quickly placing his boot firmly in the doorframe, he prevented it from being closed. His prey struggled, casting hexes at him fervently, but Harry dodged and sidestepped all of them, ending up directly next to the taller man.

His dagger tilted upward and embedded in the man's wand arm.

The screams were delicious. Harry twisted the dagger, causing the man to drop his wand on the floor. The puddle of blood blossomed and the man slipped to the ground.

"Please!" he cried. "I swear I didn't do anything!"

Harry scowled, glancing at the child. He couldn't see the boy's face, as the nude child was hunched over, holding his face between his palms.

"Is that right?" Harry murmured quietly. He twirled the dagger between his fingers, feeling nothing but disgust and hate for the pathetic man laying in his own blood. Through a red haze, he watched the man, unable to clear his head, but not wanting to just yet. "I've encountered many men who give way to their carnal desires and claim they did nothing wrong."

He crouched, using his dagger to tear apart the man's hastily thrown on robe. He fed false emotions of confusion and fear, making the man immobile. "Scum like you have no right to live. Why should you have the right to spread terror to those who are defenseless?"

Suddenly, Lily and James danced in front of his eyes and Harry roared in misery, seeing faceless tormentors like the man laying prone before him.

He brought back his dagger and stabbed it several times in the man's torso. The child's crying did nothing to tame Harry's racing pulse and frenzied emotions. His movements were automatic and he felt as if he were watching the proceedings behind a soundless and foggy glass. Even if he wanted to stop, his body couldn't hear him and would not comply.

Only when the man stopped moving, stopped giving off the tainted taste of ruined soul, did Harry come back in control.

He dropped his dagger, raking his blood-stained fingers through his hair. Keeping balance on his feet, Harry curled in on himself, breathing deeply. _What had he done_? He had lost control. That hadn't happened since his first kill. Though, he had never encountered a crime taking place that involved so many potent emotions.

He couldn't block things like that. He didn't _have_ Occlumency to fall back on.

But it was no excuse. Even seeing flashbacks of his mother's broken and lifeless body being used by several men shouldn't have snapped Harry the way it had. This child was not his mother. This man was not her tormentors. He had just killed a man out of uncontrollable anger and hate. He had fallen, and he had fallen hard.

A tentative hand touched Harry's shoulder. He reared away, staring into startled blue eyes. The boy's small frame trembled. He couldn't be older than nine. Looking at the boy's porcelain skin and platinum blond hair, Harry felt his consciousness snap back together and his survival instincts rear back.

This was Auror Grey's son.

The boy lunged at Harry, tackling him in a hug. Sobs shook the boy, so much so that it was hard to keep a steady hold on the child. Harry stared at the opposite end of the showers, his mind racing. One thing was for certain, he had to erase signs that he was here, including the vomit outside the room, but he had to do it with the dead man's wand. There was also fingerprints he would be unable to wipe off on the wand, which meant he had to bring it with him and then destroy it.

And that was a risk in itself.

And the boy?

Right now, the child was delirious, seeing a murderer as his savior. Harry was decent at Memory Charms, but he was inferior when it came to Unspeakables and their ability to reverse said Memory Charms. What he could do as an alternate would take a lot longer than just the few minutes he had.

And if on cue, voices and hurried footsteps were coming down the corridor.

It was a good thing Harry was in a territory where he knew every twist and turn. If he had any chance of escaping the Quidditch pitch without leaving a trail and clues behind, he would have to act _now_ and he would have to bring the child with him.

Auror Grey would be beyond livid.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**12\. Chapter Twelve**

Wide blue eyes stared back at him.

Harry fed him another stack of pancakes, watching as the boy prodded it with a fork before inhaling. Ropes of syrup stuck to his chin before the pancake fully entered his mouth. His hands trembled and he continuously glanced at Harry, expecting him to pounce across the table.

Withholding a sigh, Harry glanced around the restaurant. "Was he your uncle?" he inquired softly.

They sat in a secluded booth at a Muggle diner, mindful of secrecy. Even Muggles could connect clues back to a crime scene.

The boy, August Grey, nodded silently, looking down at his pancakes with sudden disinterest. "My… my mum says he has… bipolar disease?" He licked his lips and glanced slyly up at Harry. "She cries sometimes about it. She doesn't let me stay with him alone. She's always around, except for tonight." He took a shuddering breath. "He always scared me."

Harry sat in silence, feeling the self-contempt churn his stomach further. _Bipolar_.

"Does… has he done this to you before, August?"

He couldn't imagine that it hadn't happened before. It _had_ to have happened. The way the boy's horror and terror had flared was reminiscent of past history. The way the uncle had ordered him to bend over was another hint that this had transpired before. The feelings of meek and fragile self-confidence all but exuded from the small child across from Harry.

August pressed the bristles of his fork against the pancake. He was no older than nine, but his expressions indicated he had already lived a lifetime of torment.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely.

When a spring of tears clouded the boy's eyes, Harry looked at the ceiling. Hesitantly, he reached over and patted the child's hand. Only, the boy had removed his hand quickly, looking cornered and frightened.

"Hey," Harry scolded, looking back at the boy. He was not qualified for a job like _this._ "I'm not going to hurt you."

His attempt at comfort was for naught, for August began crying silently, burying his face in his hands.

Sighing, Harry stared out the window, wondering at this horribly numb feeling in his stomach. He lost complete control tonight… all on a mentally ill man. Looking back on the situation, it _had_ perplexed Harry how the predator had conflicting feelings during the initial attack.

But now it all made sense. The 'uncle' had been a whole different man when he led his nephew by the hand. Bipolar wasn't something Harry was necessarily schooled on, but he knew the basics.

Still, Harry's control had shattered. All he could think about was his mother's abuse, how _he_ had been used by proxy. They had leered over his mother's form and he had felt every minute of it. This child across from him… he had seen Lily in him. And he had seen his tormentors in the uncle.

It was eerily similar to what Riddle had said before…

_No._

Where the hell did the Dark Lord get off prescribing someone their problems? It wasn't as if _Riddle_ was a bloody saint.

But Harry acknowledged he needed to learn Occlumency. The feeling of losing control had been… unpleasant. His primitive instincts had taken over and his logical side helplessly watched behind a foggy and soundproof barrier—completely powerless to the situation.

Harry had lost control before, but never when he had trained so hard to stay on top, to stay in control. Luckily, he had been able to think quickly on his feet. He believed he had successfully hidden any clues that could lead back to him. Many would even doubt _Custos_ was responsible.

Yes, he would need to learn Occlumency. Who he would learn it from was still up in the air. He would be _damned_ if he let Riddle or Snape inside his memories. It would give them all unnecessary leverage against him.

Harry lowered his gaze to his nails, staring at the dried blood he hadn't scrubbed off yet. It wasn't that he was _sad_ he had killed that… that monster, just that he'd lost his control so easily. And yet, he also felt no better than the monster he had just killed. A great deal of doubt and confusion weighed heavily on Harry. He couldn't make heads or tails of it all.

"… _You need help, Harry."_

He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes against Hermione's words.

Calmly, he pierced together his composure and sanity.

Erik Slore and Uncle Grey had been two unfortunate _mishaps._ He'd lost control with Uncle Grey, he accepted that much and he was going to work to remedy that weakness. On the other hand, Erik Slore had been a victim of Harry's boredom, a victim of Harry's unrestrained darkness.

He hadn't waited until the Ministry got their hands on Slore before acting.

And yet, both of these _mishaps_ had saved one victim, doubtless that August Grey had been abused before this incident. As long as Harry acknowledged his slip-ups, he could prevent them from happening again. He was not losing control.

He was still composed; he was still standing on both feet.

"Stop crying," Harry scolded softly, his eyes flickering over to the sobbing child. Luckily, the boy was a silent crier. No further attention from Muggles was needed.

He stared at the trembling boy. August's silent cries were most likely why this sexual abuse happened in the first place. Had the boy kept this from his mother? It wasn't unusual for abusers to feel compelled to keep it a secret. But Auror Grey was a notorious enforcer of the law. Surely she must have seen or sensed something?

August peered at Harry between his fingers, acting as if his hands covering his face would make him invisible.

Harry pointed his finger at the boy, telling the child he could still see him. "Your uncle was _sick_." He laid his hand on the table between him and the boy. "The things he did to you were wrong, you hear me?"

"H-he told me I deserved it. That he loved me and wanted me to love him too."

Pressing his fingers against his eyes, Harry growled. "I don't give a shite what your uncle said. He _was_ an unintelligent and pathetic human being." Acidic green eyes traced August's shocked expression. "He had a darkness that made him sick. He used to love you, but that monster growing inside him made him evil. It made him do those things to you. You see, that wasn't your uncle that hurt you all those times. That was a monster controlling your uncle's body."

By the time Harry finished his tirade, the boy had dropped his hands from his face and stared at him. "I don't believe in monsters."

What an annoying little _imp_.

Harry grimaced. He had tried explaining it in terms a child would understand. "Monsters are real, boy." He leaned closer to the child, a dark grin on his face. "They just don't walk around like those big hairy creatures you know from fables."

The two stared at one another before August dropped his eyes meekly. His history of sexual abuse would make him look down first until he found a way to unbury his obscured self-confidence. "Then you're a hero. For killing monsters, you're a hero."

A hero.

_Ha!_

Was he? Harry liked to think he _was_ saving other potential victims out there. He liked to think that he was doing the Wizarding World a favor by destroying men like Slore and women like Zabini. Only, the world couldn't be as black and white as children viewed it. Auror Shacklebolt, Auror Grey, and others wanted Harry convicted if they caught him, while some members of the public worshipped him.

Harry reached over, this time wrapping his hand around the boy's syrup-stained hand.

He withheld a grimace, but offered a smile instead. He slowly fed the boy emotions of confidence, security, and purity. It was hard digging these emotions up, but he succeeded, he needed to for the child's sake. "I think you are the hero."

Blue eyes melted and he gave a wide smile. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so."

Already, Harry sensed a distinct change in the boy. It really was remarkable how humans acted differently if they experienced the right emotions. How brilliant this boy shined when he was feeling a respectful level of confidence.

Harry's Empathy influence wouldn't last forever, but he was sure that the boy would be able to dig it up again now that he'd experienced it. Even if Harry wiped the child's memories, the brain wouldn't forget emotions so easily. Perhaps he would intentionally bump into August Grey from time to time in order to feed him some sprinkles of confidence.

The boy may be an unnecessary burden, but a child… no, a _human_ never deserved humiliation and abuse like this.

August bowed his head. "I want to go back to my mum."

_That sentiment is quite mutual, kid._

"And you will." Harry leaned back against the squeaky booth and tapped his fingers against the table.

After studying Uncle Grey's crime scene, they would declare the killer a copycat of _Custos._ He made sure of that. He also had a shaky alibi. Overall, Harry was confident in all steps, save for _one;_ the boy's memories.

He _wanted_ to go to Riddle. It was the most rational thing to do.

Riddle was a brilliant Legilimens. He would know exactly what to do and he would do it quickly. However, Harry knew going to the man would only prove disastrous. He did not _crawl_ for help. He did not rely on someone, especially Riddle. Someone like Riddle would clearly want compensation.

Judging from the man's happy hands, he had a sinking suspicion he knew what Riddle would ask for in return. No, Harry needed something else, something that would be just as effective and…

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

_Oh yes…_ that could work very well…

**. . Dreams . .**

"I'm ready to talk!" Cormac announced firmly. "I have an alibi the night of Erik Slore's murder."

Kingsley, already hassled with other pressing matters, sighed heavily and forced himself to sit down. "Yes, your lawyer informed me of such." He glanced at the stern-looking man next to Cormac McLaggen. "Can you tell me why you've changed your mind? If I recall correctly, you didn't have a solid alibi before."

Cormac raked a hand through his blond curls.

Clearly, the past few days of surveillance had been hard on the boy. McLaggen had been allowed bail, but he had been watched by a few Aurors and restricted to a lack of privacy. The _Prophet_ hadn't gotten hold of the Auror's detainment of McLaggen, only that there were a lead on the _Custos_ case _._

Kingsley fought tooth and nail to keep everything covered, just in case this turned out to be a false lead.

In all actuality, Cormac McLaggen never struck Kingsley as _Custos._ The boy was too…

"Mr. Mullen told me there was an upcoming trial," McLaggen said slowly. He pouted, taking his time in responding, clearly ignorant of Kingsley's heavy schedule. "A trial that will present me as _Custos._ He also said that you had enough evidence that could incarcerate me." McLaggen paused and Kingsley leaned forward. "I can't have my reputation ruined like that, even if I am innocent."

Kingsley rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing the boy would get to his alibi. "Yes, yes, I understand Mr. McLaggen. Your alibi?"

Really, he had to be with his Aurors. There was an uproar in the Department and Auror Grey needed to be reassured.

Locking his fingers together over the table, Cormac frowned heavily at Kingsley. "I want to make sure this stays between us."

"I cannot guarantee that I won't share it with my other Aurors, Mr. McLaggen. They are also on the _Custos_ case. They will need to know the details. But you have my word that I will keep it as confidential as possible."

McLaggen and Mullen exchanged a terse nod, oblivious to Kingsley's impatience.

Suddenly, McLaggen's cheeks turned pink. "I was with Draco Malfoy that Friday night at eight o'clock."

Kingsley raised his eyebrows. "With Draco Malfoy? At his manor?"

If possible, McLaggen's cheeks darkened further. "No." He coughed in his fist. "We were in an inn… in Knockturn Alley."

_Oh._

Kingsley blinked, coughing politely into his hand, similar to McLaggen's earlier gesture. "Well," he began professionally. "You will have to fill out a quick section of paperwork before leaving the Ministry, Mr. McLaggen. After which, the Aurors will escort you home and you will hear back from us shortly."

Cormac stood up abruptly. "I just gave you my alibi, surely the surveillance can—"

"You're a prominent attorney, Mr. McLaggen," Kingsley interrupted, standing as well. "I'm sure you know that a suspect is not free from surveillance until his alibi is confirmed. After which, we'll do the necessary release papers and you will receive your privacy back." He nodded to the two blondes. "Gentlemen, thank you for coming in. I'm glad you were able to see the seriousness of this situation, Cormac. I do not want an innocent man going to Azkaban."

Before they could form a proper response, Kingsley was already out the door, nodding to the Auror at the door. Auror Inkles would do the necessary paperwork while Kingsley visited other pressing matters.

As he swept down the corridor, he heard his Aurors arguing over each other, clearly not understanding Kingsley when he requested them to act like rational adults. Minister Riddle was also currently present, most likely thinking the whole Department was incapable.

"It's _not Custos_!"

Auror Grey threw her hands up in the air, desperation coursing through her. "He took my son! He was the one who killed my brother—"

" _Custos_ is not a kidnapper, Grey."

Kingsley swept into the main office area, frowning deeply.

Against the wall, Riddle was writing something furiously, paying no heed to the arguing adults around him. Kingsley had been surprised to find out the Minister had been at the Junior Quidditch Camp, working at the food court. He had been one of the first ones to find the body of Rolli Grey.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been quick enough to catch the culprit. Auror Grey had been on the scene just seconds later and she exclaimed that her son had gone missing.

It was a mess.

Nothing was left at the crime scene, not even the victim's wand. Kingsley had comforted Auror Grey, but the woman seemed far more devastated over her missing child rather than her dead brother. In fact, she seemed rather unhelpful when it came to the motive behind Rolli Grey's death.

"Harry Potter will be our prime suspect, of course," Kingsley announced his presence firmly. Sirius Black opened his mouth widely, his eyes flashing.

Kingsley held up a hand, noticing he had finally caught Riddle's attention.

"I informed you that Mr. Potter left the closing proceedings in my hands, Auror Shacklebolt," Riddle educated smoothly. "He said he had a prior engagement. His presence was not expected tonight at closing."

Kingsley nodded, feeling a migraine in the back of his head. "I believe you, Minister Riddle, but until Mr. Potter shows up and explains his situation, we have to consider him responsible. There are witnesses who claim to have seen him entering the entrance to the basement arena just before Rolli's body was found."

He turned away from Riddle's impassive expression and motioned toward the floating board. "Until then, we need to deem this a _Custos_ crime or a copycat—"

"Copycat," one seasoned Auror interrupted firmly. "Just look at the sloppy kill. The stab wounds are sparse, not particular. _Custos_ is very precise and clean. Not sporadic."

Kingsley shook his head, stopping the man from continuing before he turned to a silent Grey. "Are you certain you wish to stay here? You are not allowed to be actively in this case, but you may observe until the field Aurors track down your son."

Auror Grey stared blankly at the photographs of her dead brother, worry etched deeply in her face. As she turned to look at Kingsley, her blonde ponytail slid across her shoulder. "I want to be in the field, looking for my son." She looked away from his coming rebuttal. "But I know I am unable to do so. Please, don't censor your words on my account," she said bitterly.

Auror Anderson smirked at Grey, his eyes narrowing. "You're holding out on us, Grey." His words silenced the chatter around the Department. "You think it's _Custos_ despite the glaring facts that it's a copycat. One of _Custos_ ' MO is hunting criminals. Each of his victims has been a criminal. So… if you believe _Custos_ was the one to do this, then what, exactly, has your brother done to warrant our serial killer's attention?"

If the silence was heavy before, it was oppressive now.

Kingsley watched Grey, noticing she had tensed at the inquiry. The question was extremely warranted, and something that had crossed Kingsley's mind when he had first inspected the body of Rolli Grey.

"I— I didn't think of it that way, Auror Anderson," Grey responded listlessly. "I only looked at the method—"

"The method? You mean the uneven stab wounds? The sloppy work at covering his trails?" Anderson thrust a thumb at one of the photographs. "Your brother even had a smile painted on his lips with his own blood. The media knows _Custos_ leaves behind a smile at his crime scenes, but they are not knowledgeable of what _kind_ of smile. This copycat actually thought _Custos_ paints the smile on his victims." The silver-haired Auror shrugged mockingly, looking at Grey imploringly. "To me, if you simply _looked_ at the method, you would know instantly that this isn't _Custos_. Remind me again why you thought it was our serial killer?"

"Who, exactly, is the one being interrogated here?" Grey snapped viciously.

"What was your brother doing all the way downstairs with your son?!" Anderson pressed, raising his voice.

"Auror Anderson," Kingsley started firmly, but was quickly cut off by Auror Grey's sudden exhalation.

All eyes turned toward the blonde witch, watching as she pressed her knuckles to her forehead in attempt to compose herself. No tears had fallen, but that didn't stop the vulnerability from crossing her face.

"Rolli was never supposed to pick August up tonight." Auror Grey removed her hand, looking at the board. "He suffered from severe bipolar. I- I had suspected that he had… that he had hurt August before, but it was never confirmed."

"You believe Rolli was guilty of—"

"Rape," Auror Grey cut in, her jaw clenched. "I tried so hard to keep him away from August. I had _thought_ Rolli was doing better, that he was taking medication. Every time I asked August about it, about the possible abuse he experienced, he would say that nothing ever happened." She swallowed thickly, blinking quickly to vanish away the small tears. "I… I need it to be _Custos_ who killed Rolli. He may be a serial killer, but I know he has his own sets of morals. He would never kill an innocent child."

Before anyone could offer comfort, a young voice beat them to it.

" _Mama!"_

A blond-haired child raced inside the Department and toward Auror Grey. He collapsed in her arms, hugging her with equal vigor. Kingsley watched as Auror Grey cried in relief, squeezing her child to herself, possessive and unrelenting to the concerned hands reaching in her direction. Kingsley smiled, just a relieved to find the child alive.

He turned toward the door to the Department, spotting Harry Potter and Auror Turner.

"Mr. Potter," Kingsley greeted, surprised. "Auror Turner."

The boy, young man, nodded sharply and entered further into the Department, ignorant to the sharp attention from the Aurors and the Minister. "Auror Shacklebolt, I thought you might want to speak to me."

Potter's usual limp was subtle, but noticeable to Kingsley's eyes as he came to a stop in front of him. "I—well, of course, Mr. Potter, you thought right." Before Kingsley could usher the group of them to another room, a sharp _tapping_ hit the floor in measured, light taps.

The Head Auror pivoted, frowning deeply at the newcomer. It was a man with long, tawny hair braided down his back. He was dressed smartly in a suit vest and dark slacks. Sunglasses veiled the newcomers' eyes and a silver cane was in his hand, tapping the ground eagerly in front of him.

"I dearly hope I'm not late," the man exclaimed dramatically, using his cane to lead him across the Department.

Kingsley watched, fascinated, as the cane all but pulled its owner forward like that of a dog. The cane came to a stop near Potter, tapping excitingly before it danced up the boy's leg and up his crotch. Potter hissed, his cheeks flushing hotly as he danced away from the man's cane.

"Mr. Potter," the stranger greeted. "I'm not late, am I?"

"You're just on time," Potter replied tightly, scratching the back of his neck. He then turned to Kingsley, grimacing. "I—perhaps we could discuss this more privately?" He looked pointedly at the whole Department of Aurors, all of whom looked on, curious. "I, er, I heard about the murder and came as quickly as I could."

Kingsley blinked, shaking himself out of his stupor. "Yes, you're quite right, Mr. Potter." He looked over the boy's messy hair and nodded at the Minister. "Minister, Grey, Turner, why don't you three accompany Potter and myself? And…" he trailed off, looking pointedly at the stranger.

"William Stratton," Potter supplied quietly. "I owled him and asked him to come. He should be able to supply you with my alibi."

Assessing the blind wizard once more, Kingsley found himself nodding, too taken aback by this stranger's cheerful and odd disposition to properly form a response. Instead, he led the group away from the main hall and toward an interrogation room.

This was certainly turning out to be a lot more unusual by the second. He had expected Potter to remain away from the Ministry, too afraid to approach it in fear of being questioned. But then again, this was James Potter's son, a courageous Gryffindor.

Unlocking the door to the larger interrogation room, Kingsley ushered the crowd inside. He made eye contact with Minister Riddle, sharing the man's expression of silent speculation. He then nodded to Auror Turner, gesturing for the man to stay standing near the door.

"I hope this won't take too long, Auror Shacklebolt," Auror Grey started, keeping a firm hold on her son's hand. Her opposite hand stroked the boy's hair. "I would like to get August home as soon as possible."

He understood her pressing desire to take her son home and comfort him, but her son was also part of determining this case. Nonetheless, Kingsley nodded diplomatically.

"We will try to make this as quick as possible, Auror Grey, Mr. Potter."

He sat down across from Potter and the unusual Stratton. Grey settled down next to him with August on her lap, expecting every last inch of him. And with one look over his shoulder, he eyed the Minister who folded against the wall behind him.

It was quite the crowd.

"Let's start with the basics, shall we?" Riddle murmured, easily taking Kingsley's words from his mouth. "I already explained to Auror Shacklebolt that Mr. Potter had a prior engagement this evening. He left early from the Quidditch camp and asked if I could look after the closing proceedings."

"That's right," Potter picked up, not missing a beat. "I had an appointment with William Stratton… my therapist." He said this lowly, as if not inclined to share with so many people.

All eyes turned to Stratton as the therapist smiled broadly, patting the table with his fingertips.

"That is right," was all he said in return.

Kingsley pressed a curled hand to his mouth, staring at the young therapist. He hadn't known Harry Potter was receiving therapy; then again, it wasn't usually general knowledge to know who was receiving that kind of help.

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Potter," Kingsley started slowly. "When did you start going to a psychologist?"

Potter opened his mouth to respond, but it was Minister Riddle's sly voice that broke the silence. "I think that is highly inappropriate, Auror Shacklebolt. One does not simply dig his nose between a patient and his therapist. Would you also like to know what they discuss during their meetings as well?"

Kingsley spluttered, straightening from his position. "I—well, it's a fair question," he cleared his throat, offering the Minister a pinched look.

Potter grinned uncomfortably, shifting from the tension in the room. He played with his hair again, messing it up even further. Very much like his father. "No, no, it's alright Minister Riddle." He looked at a silent, but grinning William Stratton. "Err, I started therapy a few months after my parents' death. Sirius and Hermione Granger thought it was a good idea." He shrugged. "I don't really go often anymore, but I still go from time to time." His eyes jumped from person to person. "Tonight happened to be one of those nights."

Stratton made a sound of agreement as he dug through his cloak, taking out a small black book. He set it on the table, his veiled eyes looking up at the ceiling. His fingers danced across the journal, flipping the pages until he reached his destination.

"Ah, here we go." He slid the book in the direction of Kingsley, revealing a daily planner full of brail notes. "See, right here." As he moved his fingertips across the brail at today's date, a smooth, female voice announced;

" _Harry James Potter, seven o'clock."_

Kingsley sat back. "I will have to check your credentials, Dr. Stratton, but otherwise, Mr. Potter's alibi is solid." He paused, staring at the young man across from him. "However, there is one thing that doesn't add up."

Potter's eyebrows hitched and he leaned forward in anticipation. "Anything, Auror Shacklebolt, I will be glad to answer."

The pure honesty across the boy's face and the eagerness to help surprised Kingsley. "There are a few witnesses who saw you walking quickly toward the basement of the pitch. This happened to be the…" he paused, looking toward the small child in Auror Grey's arms. "It was the crime scene where we found the victim. Whatever were you doing down there at that time?"

Guilt clouded Potter's face and he looked down. "I— I feel awful for being so close." Here, he looked at Auror Grey. "I should have seen them, but I didn't. I was so focused on getting to my appointment on time…"

"But what were you doing down there, Mr. Potter?" Riddle inquired sharply, his tone deep and suspicious.

Potter offered Riddle an exasperated look. Clearly the boy still wasn't on good terms with the Minister. "I'm getting there, alright? I had to go back for my tea."

"Your tea?" Riddle repeated, dubious, unimpressed.

"I can answer that!" Stratton exclaimed proudly, holding up a finger to halt anymore questions and explanations. His long braid curled around his shoulder as he leaned into Potter. "The poor boy needs some _spice_ in his life. Earl Grey this, Earl Grey _that_." The therapist grimaced. "It's all the boy drinks. I can even _smell_ it on him. I've been trying to get him to expand his horizons. His assignment was to pick out a new tea and bring it with him tonight."

Suddenly, the tall male leaned across the table, pressing his finger against Kingsley's nose. "Auror Shacklebolt, tea is very good for the soul. It emits a therapeutic aroma and it settles your chi. Perhaps you should try it some time." He then turned a finger in Riddle's general direction. "Unfortunately, you are past helping, Minister Riddle. You are simply a lost cause."

Potter snorted at that, wicked amusement dancing across his face. Though, he immediately sobered when he looked at August Grey curled up on his mother's lap.

"After my appointment, I heard about what happened at the camp. I immediately went over to the pitch and offered my services. I felt immensely responsible. These children are my responsibility."

Kingsley looked toward the imposing figure of Auror Turner for conformation.

The dark-skinned Auror nodded deeply, easily lifting Kingsley's suspicions. Turner was a very trust-worthy Auror and a hard-working individual "He's telling the truth, sir. I saw him Apparate in myself. I told him you were looking for him, but he insisted he help search the pitch for Auror Grey's son before he arrived here."

"I do know the Quidditch pitch the best," Potter expanded. "I understood you would need my alibi, so I owled Dr. Stratton and asked him to meet me here. Auror Turner read over my letter before I sent it."

"Yes, sir," Turner confirmed again. "He's clean."

"And my son?" Grey pressed, looking between Turner and Potter. "What happened?"

"We found him, ma'am," Auror Turner reassured. "I was assigned to look for him at the pitch, in case he wasn't kidnapped and was just hiding." He looked at Potter. "Mr. Potter and I searched together and it took a good half-an-hour to find him huddled in the top tier of the bleachers. He was frightened, but unharmed."

Auror Grey breathed a sigh of relief, pressing a kiss to her son's forehead. "Thank you, Mr. Potter and Auror Turner for bringing back my son."

It was all well and good.

Potter had an alibi, the child was unharmed, and Auror Grey received peace of mind. However, there were still questions regarding the case. For instance, what did the child see, if anything? Kingsley looked over his shoulder at Riddle, noticing the man was watching William Stratton with hooded eyes.

"Minister," Kingsley called to attention. "Perhaps you can look into the child's mind…"

"With all due respect, Auror Shacklebolt, my son has gone through a traumatic experience tonight," Auror Grey snapped in interruption.

Kingsley pressed his fingers against his temples. "I could have the Unspeakables search your son's memories, but I thought it would be subtler to use Minister Riddle and his Legilimency abilities. August won't feel a thing and he won't have to relive the experience. We need to know if he has seen anything, if his mind was tampered with." He raised an eyebrow, knowing Auror Grey wouldn't refuse.

She was just as much driven to find their serial killer as he was.

Grey looked at Minister Riddle while holding her child possessively. For a moment, it looked as if she would refuse. "Alright," she agreed softly. "Just—just tonight's events, Minister, please."

The Minister stepped away from the back wall with slow and measured steps. "You have my word," the man promised lowly. He approached mother and son, his eyes focused on the silent child. He reached out, tapping the boy lightly under the chin. "Look at me, child."

Kingsley eyed the proceedings intently before glancing at Potter and Stratton. The two were looking on, intrigued and ordinary. Nothing on their expression would indicated their nervousness over what Riddle would find.

Turning back to the Minister, Kingsley watched as he released August Grey's chin.

"Nothing," Riddle confirmed. "The boy was assaulted momentarily by his uncle, but ran from the showers as soon as someone knocked on the door. He was hiding where Mr. Potter and Auror Turner claimed he was." He pressed his lips together. "I'm afraid we will be unable to obtain any information from Auror Grey's son."

For a fleeting moment, Kingsley considered asking the Unspeakables for a second opinion, but soon dismissed it. Auror Grey wouldn't concede to that and Minister Riddle would find insult.

He had a lot of work to go over tonight. And he hadn't even had dinner yet... And to think, he would need to contact the Malfoys. His headache grew in intensity just thinking about it.

"You may go, Mr. Potter, Mr. Stratton. Thank you for your assistance tonight."

Potter stood up with Stratton, a grim smile on his face. "My pleasure." He nodded to Auror Grey and Kingsley before making his way toward the door.

Before Auror Turner could open the door to release them, a young voice interrupted their departure.

"Harry!"

Kingsley watched, surprised, as August Grey unwound himself from his mother's arms and ran toward Potter. It had been the first time the child spoke and the first indication he had noticed Potter's presence. Next to him, Auror Grey stood up, watching the proceedings with keen interest, worry still etched across her face.

The boy hesitated as he stopped in front of Harry. Because his back was turned to the adults, Kingsley couldn't discern the child's expression. However, the small shoulders hunched uncertainly and the thin arms hesitantly swung from his sides.

"T-thank you," the child whispered quietly.

Potter blinked down at the child before a smile crossed his lips. He crouched down, level with the child and held out his arms. August leaned into him, hugging him just as strongly as he had his mother. Potter chuckled, leaning away and ruffling the boy's hair.

"You're welcome." At his touch, the young boy all but _inflated,_ gaining some courage back. "I hope to see you on the Quidditch pitch again. You're a prodigy in the making."

And without further ado, Potter stood up and escaped the room with his therapist at his back.

Kingsley frowned deeply.

For being sexual abused, August seemed comfortable in Potter's presence. It was unusual, or so the thought. Was it a good sign? Or a bad sign? Was he reading too far into it? He liked to think he had a small sliver of intuition.

And right now, his intuition was telling him that this scene wasn't exactly as it seemed to be.

**. . & Darkness . .**

"He's suspicious of you, you know. One may be able to misguide Shacklebolt, but he is also a smart man."

"I know," Harry replied curtly, cutting into his chicken.

He had no idea why he had accepted Riddle's dinner invitation. Probably because he knew this wasn't going to be just _dinner,_ but also the night he received his first assignment.

It had been almost a week since the Quidditch incident and Riddle had kept his respectful distance since then. Of course, the Minister had also declined working at the food court again, explaining he had other _pressing_ matters to attend.

Harry hadn't pushed; in fact, he had embraced a whole week without the Dark Lord breathing down his neck. It also gave him time to work out alternative plans and schemes. He needed to be prepared if Riddle turned on him and he needed to be prepared if the Ministry were to catch on to his identity.

"You know?" Riddle repeated in humor.

Harry chewed his chicken, looking across the table at the Dark Lord. "You must realize that I _have_ considered the possibility that I would get caught."

He looked back down at his plate, not entirely in the mood to converse with Riddle. He was weighed heavily by the Weasleys, by Hermione, by the Grey's, and by his _consistent_ itch to hunt. The Junior Quidditch Camp was finally over and Harry had yet to unwind from the stress and the constant _going._

He was due to go to a Christmas gathering at the Weasley's tomorrow. The gathering cut into his isolation, his privacy. He needed time to re-energize.

Across from the table, Riddle reclined in his chair. "I see you're in a good mood," he observed dryly. "Has the weight of your mask exhausted you? My, my, I can hardly see your true persona underneath all that leftover Harry Potter grime."

Harry knew what the man was hinting at. He offered the Dark Lord a chilling stare. "Yes, I am able to keep up with you tonight, if that's what you're insinuating." Mentally, he sighed, realizing that he needed to recover his wits. And quickly. He recognized that he needed to be sharp and ready with Riddle. After all, it was Harry who had accepted this invitation tonight. "It's been so long since I was able to relax."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he froze.

_Fool._ You're a _fool,_ Harry Potter _._

"Relax?" Riddle caught the slip and pounced on it with gleeful vigor. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted that you can _relax_ in my presence." The Dark Lord sipped his wine and watched Harry attentively.

Too attentively.

"You should be insulted, really," Harry replied, recovering only slightly.

Riddle didn't accept his recovery. He only continued to stare, tapping his fingers against the stem of his wine glass in contemplation. "I would be devastated if you were to be corrupted back into the old Harry Potter." He placed his wine on the table and leaned forward in his chair. "I believe those redheads are negatively influencing you. Perhaps you should spend some more time with me."

Harry continued to pick at the vegetables on his plate, playing ignorant. "In all actuality, I think _you_ are the negative influence, Riddle." He looked up at Riddle, unable to stop the slow smirk beginning to tug at the edge of his mouth. "Clearly you don't give yourself enough credit."

And just like that, after a few traded verbal barbs, Riddle was able to reach into the numbing abyss and pull Harry back through. His mind seemed to sharpen and his instincts were fine-tuned. Despite his slip in claiming that Riddle was relaxing, Harry knew there was some truth to it.

It was just _fun_ to be around Riddle. He could be himself, he didn't have to pretend. Not that he liked the bastard…

As if reading Harry's mind, Riddle sat back, satisfied. "I do have to comment on this past week's victim."

"I would be surprised if you didn't have anything to say about it," Harry quipped. "Tell me you were impressed," he coaxed, grinning coyly.

He was pushing it with the arrogance, he knew, especially when the murder happened because of his lack of self-control. They both knew Harry had slipped.

Crimson eyes darkened and Riddle raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You're fortunate you can think on your feet, even more fortunate you have quite the compelling mask." He cocked his head to the side, his gaze unwavering gaze. "I am curious about your therapist."

"William Stratton," Harry supplied. "He really is my therapist."

When he had needed William as his alibi, it had been surprisingly easy to get the man to agree. The man had all but gushed at seeing Harry again and hadn't asked too many questions. The man knew, he had to have known, Harry was _Custos._ Yet, Stratton was providing him with an alibi.

"His services at the Ministry only cost me marginally."

"Oh?" Riddle inquired darkly. "And how exactly are you repaying him?"

Harry's eyes flickered up at the Dark Lord. "Unlike you, Riddle, Stratton doesn't mind bottoming."

He couldn't resist. It was an extremely immature response, but Harry _needed_ to see the way those red eyes lightened with quiet anger. Harry chuckled merrily, tipping his head back. "I'm only joking," he said, taming the Dark Lord's icy stare. "Originally, I had stopped our therapy appointments. In return for acting as my alibi, he asked me to resume our sessions once every two weeks."

"He seems desperate for your attention. Are you sure you can trust him?"

Smiling bitterly, Harry set his fork and knife down. "I can't trust anyone, Riddle." He picked up the glass of wine and swirled it. "You didn't ask me about August Grey's altered memories."

"Simply because I was the one who taught Severus Snape. I could recognize his presence in the boy's mind." The Dark Lord pushed his plate away and a House-elf immediately appeared to pick it up. "I'm surprised you went to him for assistance."

"Assistance? Hardly. I went to him for repayment." Harry followed the Dark Lord's lead and pushed his plate away. Another House-elf popped in and vanished with his plate. "He owes me far more than he can possibly repay in his lifetime."

His fingers clenched underneath the table as he thought of Snape. He hadn't _liked_ going to Snape, but it was necessary. The man hardly batted an eyelash as he took August Grey and manipulated the boy's memories. Nothing had been said between the two besides clipped instructions and subtle insults.

He looked up at the Dark Lord, noticing the man's satisfied expression.

"What?" Harry demanded suspiciously, his body on edge.

"This has been enjoyable. Who knew you were capable of well-mannered and engaging conversation?"

Riddle liked to do this. He liked to compliment. He liked to be polite and helpful. But there were times, like now, when Harry suddenly _sensed_ something darker beneath the façade.

There was something incredibly sinister about Tom Riddle. Harry had only seen glimpses of it, but he had never been fooled enough to believe that was the extent of Riddle's darkness. There was a lot more depth there, Harry had only scratched the surface.

There was a reason Riddle was so powerful and influential. Pure and polite politicians did not get to the top. And Dark Lords did not come to power based on how well they could compliment others. Harry was never fooled, he was never manipulated, and luckily, he believed Riddle knew that as well. The Dark Lord was aware that Harry had his own darkness and he knew he couldn't fool Harry completely with his genuine act of kindness.

It was probably why they enjoyed each other's company so well.

Despite their veiled darkness, they both saw through the other.

"I think I prefer seeing your fangs," Harry drawled. He didn't mind conversing with Riddle, but he also enjoyed fighting with him as well. He supposed if he was 'working for' the Dark Lord, then verbal banter would have to suffice.

Through half-lidded eyes, Riddle watched Harry. "You have never seen my fangs fully, child. I would scare you away." The Dark Lord smirked. "Though perhaps not. Perhaps I would only excite you. We are _much_ alike after all."

Harry scoffed.

He already knew the Dark Lord was corrupt and tainted. It was half the reason he could never join the man willingly. His mother had despised Riddle as well, though she had never interacted with him as much as Harry had. It was her intuition that made her leery of Riddle.

"You don't agree," Riddle observed. "Someday you will. Someday you will realize that you aren't a saint or a hero. You are simply a skilled and clever killer."

Green eyes flashed coldly.

"Of course, that doesn't mean you don't have morals," the Dark Lord continued silkily. "Even a killer has morals and I am impressed with your strong _ethics_. One must abide to their own code in order to keep themselves falling prey to cold bloodlust." He held up a long, pale finger. "There is a difference between an intelligent killer and a lustful killer. An intelligent killer identifies their target and goes about their mission successfully. A lustful killer is very dissimilar in that they simply let their emotions control them.

"One can learn to live and accept the darkness within them. They only have to learn to _control_ it. Lustful killers cannot face the fact that they have a darkness residing inside them. They try to muffle it, suffocate it, and in turn, it takes control over _them_." He folded his hands together then, motioning toward Harry. "You are tittering dangerously between an intelligent and a lustful killer."

"Riddle—"

" _Silence,_ " the Dark Lord hissed. He leaned back against his high-backed chair. "You lost complete control when it came to Rolli Grey. You are extremely lucky that you were able to dig yourself out of that hole. But it won't be so easy next time. And it _will_ happen again if you continue to pretend that you are a _hero_ and telling yourself that you are not a killer."

"I know I'm a killer," Harry argued darkly.

Red eyes sparkled maliciously. "No you don't. You don't even think you're comparable to Zabini, Slore, Grey—"

"I'm _not_ comparable to them." Harry breathed in deeply, trying to control his anger. "I lost control over Grey, yes. I understand I need Occlumency to shield their emotions."

"No," the Dark Lord argued. "You also killed because you remembered the days of torture with your parents. You were a lustful killer that night at the Quidditch pitch. You let your emotions rule your actions. Not only do you need to learn Occlumency, but you need to find your parents' murderers and end your mental torment. You need to start accepting that darkness inside of you and act on it, control it. Right now, it's beginning to control you."

"And how would you go about controlling it?" Harry asked spitefully, reluctantly remembering how _itchy_ he was to hunt this past week.

Riddle actually chuckled at that. "Do what I do, child. Sate it, acknowledge it. For you, the only way to sate your darkness is to kill."

"I believe that's what I'm doing now…"

_You bloody bastard_.

"For all the wrong reasons," Riddle replied patiently. "You are killing in revenge. In your subconscious, these tainted victims of yours are the same tainted men who killed your mother and father. Why don't you acknowledge it for what it is? It's simply _you_ picking a target that fits your specified tastes and slaughtering it." White teeth flashed into a smile. "You are no hero. If you like to think of yourself as one, then by all means, continue to do so. But you must also acknowledge that you are a killer and you're doing it because you _enjoy_ doing it, you need to do it."

"I acknowledge your ability to read people," Harry admitted. "You're insanely good at it. But I think you read me poorly. I know I kill, I know I enjoy the _hunt_. But I also know I _do_ save others—"

"You're saving yourself; you're saving your parents. You were helpless to do anything the first time around, so now you're compensating by trying to save these helpless victims."

"Does it really matter if I think that?"

Riddle seemed frustrated as he slid his chair marginally away from the table and crossed his legs. "I'm trying to get you to stop seeing your parents and your past tormentors."

"You're trying to turn me into a cold, apathetic assassin who kills upon command. _Your_ command."

The smile the Dark Lord gave was entirely ominous. "I think it is impossible to turn you into an apathetic killer. Empaths are incapable of _being_ apathetic. Tell me, Harry, why do you make your victims die with smiles on their faces, as if they experienced pleasure past the pain they obviously felt? I think… I think you feel a twisted sense of remorse for your victims."

Perhaps it _was_ a sign of remorse. Harry's victims always felt pain, but in the ending strike, they were able to feel a semblance of pleasure and happiness. Was that really remorse?

"Remorse would be an emotion. According to you, an intelligent killer doesn't experience emotions," Harry remarked dryly, looking up at the enduring and calm Dark Lord.

"It all comes down to the fact that intelligent killers don't make their kills extremely personal. They are free to feel the adrenaline, the satisfaction, the excitement, the _remorse,_ but he should never feel as if he's doing it to save the memory of his lost mother and father." Riddle tapped his fingers lightly on his crossed knees, smiling pleasantly. "Of course, there will be kills that are personal. But an intelligent killer must distance himself from his target and not let his emotions rule his actions."

"It all sounds reasonable," Harry coincided darkly.

Riddle's words were pressing down on him, forcing him to wonder if his methods truly were objectionable. But then he remembered himself and his current position. He was sitting across from a masterful manipulator.

"But I already distance myself from my kills, besides the obvious ones where I lost control." Harry leaned back against his chair, smug. "I don't need adjusting, Riddle. I am not another one of your pet projects. I agreed to work with you because you threatened the lives of my friends. And in return, I just simply need _your_ assistance to hunt down my parents' murderers."

Crimson eyes never gave anything away to Harry's declaration. Instead, Riddle concurred with a slight inclination of his head. "And you will receive my assistance. In fact, I have invited someone to my manor this evening that should provide us with some answers." Riddle waved a hand, opening the door to the dining hall. "Before we can meet with him, I have an assignment for you that I'd like to discuss with a few others…"

Just as he said it, a group of familiar-looking wizards entered the room. Much to Harry's immediate pleasure, Lucius Malfoy was in the lead.

Smiling darkly, Harry braced both hands on his armrests, eager for what was to come.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**13\. Chapter Thirteen**

Harry kept his chin down, but his eyes focused intensely on their company.

The three men trailed into the dining hall, unaware of Harry's watchful, yet preening eyes. He kept his hands curled loosely around his armrests, his posture cool and elegant. When Lucius Malfoy threw him a sour expression, his smirk only widened.

It was pleasing to see Malfoy's wariness, as if the blond thought Harry would forgo civility and leap across the table to break his nose a third time. The blond-haired wizard opened his mouth, ready to deliver a cold comment.

Regrettably, a smaller body bumped past Malfoy, sending the pompous bastard stumbling a few steps in order to recover his balance. Barty Crouch Junior grinned widely, his eyes all for Harry as he settled in the chair closest to him. For all Barty cared, Harry was the only one in the room, his Lord be damned.

" _Custos_ ," Barty greeted with thick approbation.

Considering wizards originated from Latin roots, a surprising number of people pronounced _Custos_ incorrectly. However, Barty's Latin was flawless and crisp. The handsome pure-blood chortled in satisfaction, placing his head upon his palm to regard Harry closely.

"I don't know if you remember me, but you knocked me unconscious a couple weeks ago…" He was hardly upset and every bit elated. "That kick you executed… it was beautiful, truly."

Harry stared at him, never have interacted with Barty Crouch Junior before. This certainly was a different breed than the elder Barty Crouch. The elder Crouch was formal and reserved in public, hardly ever seen outside the Ministry. But _this…_

"Barty Crouch… _Junior_ ," Harry acknowledged in greeting. "Of course I know you."

Barty held out a long, slim hand. "Then it is simply a _pleasure_ to finally meet you. I have admired your work from the start. That donation you gave under our Lord's name was brilliant, truly a stroke of a genius. Malfoy was wound up like a wet rag for days after."

It seemed like eons ago that Harry donated the French's heavy pouch of gold to a Muggle-born group. Coincidently, the group made it their priority to help Muggles in need. For that very reason, he had donated the money under Malfoy's and Riddle's name. Personally, Harry thought his little scheme was just as brilliant as Barty claimed it to be.

And yet, it also reminded him why that money existed in the first place.

Harry reached out and shook the young man's hand. Crouch was younger than Snape and Lucius, his youthfulness showed in those dark, almost frenzied eyes. The man tasted just a tad too tainted, but not horribly.

"I'm fortunate my attempt at humor wasn't lost on everyone," Harry murmured wryly.

Barty shook his hand eagerly, seemingly honored at the mere fact he was in the same vicinity as Harry.

"Mr. Crouch, do try to restrain yourself," Riddle ordered chillingly from the other end of the table. "We are here for business, not pleasure." As the Dark Lord snapped his finger, a leather binder appeared before the man. "As most of you know," here, he looked at Harry, "Undersecretary Braun has been a thorn in our side since he has taken office."

Harry cocked and eyebrow. Riddle certainly wasn't wasting any time in his briefing.

The table they sat at was just the right size. Harry made sure to keep his attention on the Dark Lord, yet he kept his peripheral vision open to the others. He'd catch even the smallest of flinches. If they decided to break past their usual façades and reveal something further about this case, he'd notice.

Riddle opened his binder and waved his wand over the pages. Almost like a hologram, a subtle light glowed from the folder and a floating figure stood in the middle of the table.

Harry shifted in his seat, intrigued at the magic and the figure in front of him. The man was vaguely familiar to him, as he made a distinct habit of remembering faces and names, but this man only appeared once or twice in the _Prophet._

Undersecretary Braun was below Minister Guhr in the German government. Braun was decently handsome, with greying hair and sharp features. He had unusual silver eyes, a shade only pure-blood wizards seemed to possess. There was also a sinister gleam in those eyes, a _familiar_ type of gleam.

He had a look of a predator.

Laying an elbow on the arm of his chair, Harry caressed his lips in deep contemplation, memorizing the face of his new prey. _If,_ of course,Riddle proved there was enough taint on the man to warrant Harry's attention and expertise. Obviously, Riddle assumed he had enough proof, simply because he wouldn't dare bring up a target without first making sure it fit Harry's criteria.

Braun looked intelligent. And considering he was the Undersecretary of the German Ministry, he would have extra protection around him. Already, this was proving to be exciting, a fair trade for being blackmailed to work for Riddle.

Green eyes slowly looked up, knowing Riddle's intense observation was already focused on him. Harry gave a slight inclination of his head, encouraging the man that he had his attention.

Riddle smiled thinly, watching Harry zealously for a second longer than necessary. "German Minister Guhr has been an ally of ours for quite some time. Just recently, Braun has grown more influential in the political sector. His goals are to segregate Germany as the single powerhouse of Europe. He wants to take Britain's allies and destroy us from the inside out. He's already manipulated Minister Guhr into taking our connections in Poland."

Harry hummed contemplatively, drawing the attention of all the other occupants. "So you feel threatened," he purred. "That's why you want him eliminated."

Lucius shifted in his chair, his nostrils white and pinched at Harry's audacity.

"I'm confident enough to acknowledge a threat. I'm also smart enough to eliminate that threat before it puts down roots." Crimson eyes traced across Harry's face, his posture certainly assertive and regal.

The power clung to the Dark Lord like a second skin, somehow drawing disbelief that a man as powerful as Riddle was actually considering someone else a threat. Harry found it doubtful.

"There is more to it than just Germany taking Britain's allies away, Harry."

"Indeed," Harry drawled, eyes half-lidded. "I'm sure it's entirely scandalous, but I'd rather skip to the part only I would be interested in knowing." He hated politics. He had no interest in knowing what the power-hungry arseholes did to the other power-hungry arseholes.

"It is unsurprising, Potter, that your mind is still incapable of absorbing knowledge that is not elementary material," Snape sneered.

Harry hardly batted an eyelash as he kept his eyes on the conjured image of Braun. "Indeed," he repeated, his tone dripping in mockery. Next to him, Barty snickered, his emotions spiking with both amusement and infatuation.

"Gentlemen, may I continue?" Riddle broke through Barty's snickers with icy coolness. His aristocratic fingers flipped a page in his leather folder. The image of Braun immediately disappeared and was replaced with a body of a dead girl. "I'm sure you are familiar with human trafficking, Mr. Potter."

Well, _this_ was new.

Harry straightened from his reclined position, interest stiffening his spine. "I thought that barbaric practice was reserved for Muggles only." He pointedly ignored Lucius' look of exasperation in favor of surveying the picture.

It was an older girl, perhaps around fifteen or sixteen. She had a shock of long blonde hair and pale features. She was pretty, in a bittersweet-way.

"In this case, Braun is very active in trafficking. More specifically, he targets witches and wizards, all under the age of eighteen. Many politics form allegiances with Braun, and in repayment, they get to choose from his collection of 'pets'. Depending on the alliance, and the benefits Braun receives, he may even repay his client with a pure-blood witch."

Riddle sat back, folding his hands together on top the table.

Lucius shook his head in disgust, appalled that pure-bloods were even considered for trafficking.

Harry watched him. The bloody prat was one of those aristocratic arseholes who supported blood supremacy. He didn't treat lives on equal levels. No, to him, pure-bloods were divine creatures who should never suffer from inflictions; from simple hangnails to human trafficking.

Harry's fingers tapped on top his thigh and his foot tapped steadily underneath the table. He shifted, rolling his neck. Despite the seriousness of the situation, mirth bubbled through his chest.

"Such a shame for pure-blood families to lose such a precious breeder." Green eyes swept back and forth across the ceiling before locking eyes with Lucius. "How _is_ Draco doing these days? Has he provided an heir yet?" Tilting his head in mock consideration, he tapped his jaw. "How silly of me, that's impossible. Cormac McLaggen is a male."

Rage, cool and tangy, slapped Harry across the face. He watched in barely-hidden excitement as Lucius roared, standing up abruptly from his chair.

"You may be a filthy Half-blood, but the _Potter_ line was once as respected as the Malfoys. I don't see you providing a healthy heir. And the implications of that are endless."

Harry leaned forward, laughing. "That's because my seed is disturbed." He cocked his head, allowing an insane-like smile to cross his features. "At least _I_ was selfless enough to realize passing on my faults would create a monster. I can't say the same for you, Lucius."

"How _dare you_!"

"Mr. Potter," Riddle addressed dispassionately from across the table. "As much as I admire that sharp tongue of yours, why don't you save it for later? Between just the two of us, hmm?"

Harry stiffened and Lucius sat down, his expression settling into shocked delight. The Dark Lord's words conveyed sexual familiarity, though, despite Riddle's insistence, they had never gone past physical manhandling. Harry would never allow it.

Before he could deliver a scathing remark, the Dark Lord continued easily.

"I understand your unique situation when it comes to confirming your victims, Mr. Potter." At the indirect mention of his Empathy ability, Harry reluctantly turned his attention back to the task at hand. "However, once you confirm if Undersecretary Braun is a worthy opponent, I have taken the liberty of giving you these three wizards to work with. They will assist you with getting to know your target—"

"Don't insult me, _My Lord,_ " Harry interrupted icily. "I like to get to know the man myself, not rely on second-hand information that may or may not be correct."

Malfoy? Snape? It was laughable.

Yes, Harry knew they had their own specialties, but hunting was _his_ forte. A hunt was a delicate and intimate dance between just the hunter and his prey. He was insulted that the Dark Lord thought he needed assistance from bloody ponces like _Malfoy._

Though his expression stayed neutral for the most part, Riddle watched him knowingly, as if he'd anticipated Harry's reaction. The man remained silent on the subject, far more inclined to watch things unravel.

As if on cue, Snape sneered. "Undersecretary Braun isn't exactly one to reveal his personal life to obvious gawkers, Potter. It takes inside information—"

"Not everyone has to be as antisocial as you, Severus," Harry hissed silkily, his eyes darkening as he zeroed in on Snape. He smirked when he saw the man's bandaged hand, his healing fingers evidence of their past duel. "Most people have a night life, a social life, habits that do not keep them occupied in damp dungeons."

"Oh yes, because your extracurricular activities leave many covetous."

" _Enough_."

Harry had felt _his_ magic before. It was impossible to ignore. Even parading around the Ministry, his magic wrapped lovingly around him, it reached out to others with enticing appeal. Whether it be subconscious or a deliberate manner, everyone possessed that small animal instinct to get as close as possible and embrace its warmth.

However, _this_ flare of darkness that erupted inside the room was shockingly…

_Arousing, dark, and incredibly lethal_.

Unsure if it would even taste like anything, Harry's Empathy tested the exposed magic. It flickered its tongue, tasting, before recoiling abruptly. Riddle's magic wasn't tainted like the souls Harry encountered, but it was so, _so dark._ It tasted cold and treacherous.

Moreover, it was bloody arousing.

Harry sat against his chair, his eyes unfocused in his excitement. His pulse raced giddily at the darkness.

He always knew Riddle's presence excited him, their interactions proved as much, but he hadn't truly grasped the _flavor_ of magic Riddle harnessed. There was something incredibly sinful and predatory about Riddle, and Harry wondered why he didn't feel pressed to eliminate such a monster.

Judging from his follower's stiffening forms, Harry knew the Dark Lord's bout of magic was meant to stun and cause fear amongst his allies. So why did Harry only want to make him angry again? To push his buttons and experience this again? Why did he want to absorb himself into that wild magic and get lost? To hunt?

Crimson eyes found his and Harry tried to veil his expression. Dark amusement shadowed the Dark Lord's face, but it was gone within seconds. "You all are adults," he started quietly. "I have given Mr. Potter an assignment, and I expect to hear of his success. If I hear otherwise, all of you will be treated accordingly."

The magic was no longer a focal point, but now that Harry got a taste of it, he recognized it just below the surface. It skimmed Riddle's aura, cruelly reminding Harry about its presence.

"You are all dismissed."

Harry withheld a smile as he received veiled glances from both Snape and Malfoy. The Dark Lord threatened to punish them if Harry did not succeed. He intended to keep them on their toes. Let them fret. Let them come to _Harry_ and ask if they could assist.

"If you need anything," Barty started next to him, "I hope you know who to contact."

He appeared sincere enough, and Harry was certain the man would not fail him in a given task. Resisting the urge to respond sarcastically, Harry simply inclined his head. "You will be at the top of my list."

"Potter."

The Dark Lord called. And Harry took his sweet time tearing his eyes from Barty Crouch Junior.

He was not, after all, the Dark Lord's pet dog. In fact, he wasn't even a part of the man's elite _cult._ Harry wondered when he would relay this to the man. A situation would eventually arise where Tom Riddle realized that Harry's partnership did not equate to blind obedience.

Harry nodded to Barty, his eyes lingering across the man's face. He really _was_ attractive.

Turning, he left the table, slowly gliding towards Riddle. The man hardly appeared impatient with Harry's delay. If anything, he looked slightly entertained. He held the side door open, his sharp eyes zeroing in on Harry as the younger man swept past him and into the dank corridor. As the door shut behind them, silence and darkness embraced them.

"You'd do well to take advantage of their specialties," the Dark Lord instructed.

Harry stopped. He kept his back to the Dark Lord, if only to reign in his temper. "And I'd suggest, from here on out, that you stop telling me how to do my job." His shoulders stiffened. "I don't tell you how to parade around the Ministry as an elderly man with enough sick pleasantries that you'd put Albus Dumbledore to shame. Do I?"

Riddle didn't answer.

The younger wizard slowly turned to look at the man from over his shoulder, sneering when he noticed the dark stare obsessively fixed on his features. Riddle held a long-fingered hand against his mouth in deep contemplation, as if Harry were simply too complex of a character.

"Be that as it may, they are at your disposal should you require them."

And without another word, Riddle brushed past him and led him further down the corridor. Harry followed, remembering the man had indicated they'd be speaking to someone with a possible lead to his parents' murder. Despite the anticipation, he mulled over the recent proceedings with Riddle's followers.

"What if I find Undersecretary Braun not _tainted_ enough for my tastes?" Would Riddle force his hand? Would he somehow erase the memories from Harry's mind should he not take on the assignment?

As much as Tom Riddle liked to think Harry was a part of his freaky cult, he wasn't. Harry was aware of that fact, and Riddle was intelligent enough to know that as well. They had a strained _partnership,_ leaning more on _coercion_. Riddle wanted _Custos_ and he wanted to execute some hidden agenda.

But their unique standing made things difficult. Riddle could not rely on blind compliance from Harry. In fact, Harry would be disappointed in the man if he didn't suspect Harry would take full advantage of their proximity. He'd uncover as much as he could about Tom Riddle just in case he ever found himself in a corner.

"I never considered that alternative. He will be your next victim, I am sure of it."

Harry stared at the back of the man's neck, his eyes dropping with humor. The man was bloody arrogant.

"Who are we meeting?" Harry inquired when a respectable amount of time passed. Though he didn't want to sound like a child brimming with endless curiosity, he wanted to be prepared. He hated that he needed answers from _Riddle,_ of all people.

"Parker Quills," the older man crooned. "He is a retired head of the Unspeakables."

Riddle opened a door to an adjoining room without warning, bathing Harry from the warm glow inside. The Potter heir stood back, watching through narrow eyes as Riddle greeted a man within. This wasn't right. Harry didn't want to reveal his identity, unless, of course, Riddle planned on _obliviating_ the man afterwards.

"Shut the door behind you, Harry," Riddle instructed softly. "Mr. Quills, I'd like for you to meet Mr. Potter."

Like a shadow, Harry appeared at the man's side, observing him intently. One perquisite of taking Riddle's assignments was the use of the man's resources to hunt after his parents' killers. In his previous investigations by himself, he'd never heard the name Parker Quills. As Riddle stated before, Unspeakables were nearly intangible.

It was difficult discovering the identity of the members.

However, here was Riddle, his status as the Minister allowing him the name and face of a man who once worked with Lily Potter. Harry frowned. His mother mentioned working at the British Ministry, but everything she'd mentioned was vague.

"Potter," Quills breathed, standing. " _Harry Potter_."

The man was older, yet not as old as Harry suspected for being a retired Head Unspeakable. "Mr. Quills," he responded levelly, his pulse racing despite himself. He was looking at a lead straight in the eye.

His first, _real_ lead.

Only, Quills proved far more interested in him. Dull blue eyes stared at him unabashedly from behind thick lenses. Slowly, the eyes traced down his chest to his boots. And back up to his face.

From the corner of Harry's eye, he watched Riddle lean superiorly against the fireplace mantle, his tall and lithe figure rotated towards the two wizards with quiet boredom. Being so close to the flames cast his entire body in light, save for his expression, which cast in deep shadow.

Those eyes glittered maliciously as they watched Harry.

Harry grunted softly in the back of his throat, suspicious. Quills had to have remembered Tom Riddle from decades ago. While Riddle was a professor at Hogwarts before he took a career in the Ministry, he'd still been young enough entering the political world. Decades ago.

So why wasn't Parker Quills batting an eyelash at Tom Riddle's young appearance? Was this man Riddle's _cult follower_? Had they staged this conversation already? But that wouldn't make sense. Riddle would have no reason to pretend he had a lead, when, in fact, he did not.

Why then, was Riddle showing his true persona to a man who was not his follower?

"You… you look much like your mother."

A hand suddenly touched his shoulder and Harry's attention narrowed sharply. His eyes lowered to stare at the fingers claiming his person with mild aversion. Gradually, his eyes raised from the fingers and up to the man across from him.

Quills hesitantly removed his hand and flashed an uncertain smile. His whole person tasted like strong intrigue and overwhelming fascination. Harry's Empathy found it difficult pinpointing any true sinfulness to this man's taint. The old Unspeakable was tainted, yes, but not in a… direct way.

It was a naïve taint, almost as if the man didn't know the difference between good and evil.

"May I ask how you are?" Quills pushed onward, oblivious to the real reason of his presence tonight. "Are you… experiencing any side effects to your mother's loss?"

"Excuse me?" Harry asked softly, coiled and vicious.

Quills seemed to shrink back at the tone. "I- I knew Lily when she was pregnant with you," he said, as if that explained his inappropriate question. "It was why she was released from the Unspeakable Department all those years ago. She had a brilliant mind, you see, but it was far too controversial."

Harry sighed outwardly, exasperated. "Why don't you start from the beginning? I am unable to follow your fragmented quips about my mother."

He was tired of this. This endless game of questions regarding his mother. Everything he discovered only led to more questions. This conversation with Park Quills proved no different. Though, the news of his mother being released was new. He'd thought she quit on her own terms.

"I worked alongside your mother more than twenty years ago." Parker's emotions centered on impatience and a twinge of regret. "As I said, she had a brilliant mind. Like the rest of us, she wanted to experiment to her heart's content." Here, Quills glanced at Riddle. "The Ministry was rather restricted, however. They found out she was ingesting unlicensed potions and removed her from the Department."

"Aw," Riddle injected with fondness. "I _do_ remember that."

Harry turned his eyes to the dark predator in the corner, unimpressed.

"It was insignificant at the time," the Dark Lord continued airily. "I signed off on the termination papers of a nameless Unspeakable who'd been found ingesting unlicensed potions and abusing her position." He raised a bored eyebrow in Harry's direction. "Her identity was unknown to me, as all Unspeakables were, but I thought it was rather deplorable that she was… risking the wellbeing of her unborn child."

"She was not a fan of Minister Riddle, who was Undersecretary at the time," Quills confirmed. "We all despised the Ministry's tight hold on us. I think her experiments would have been Britain's breakthrough."

"Those _breakthrough_ experiments are what led to her downfall," Riddle countered coldly, reading Harry's pinched expression quite easily. "Your placed suspicion is foolish and unfounded."

Harry knew that, yet he couldn't help but see Riddle as responsible in some way. However, the longer he dwelled over it, the more he concluded that Lily Potter was _nothing_ to Riddle in his days as Undersecretary. He claimed she was faceless when he signed her termination papers, and Harry knew that to be true.

An ambitious Tom Riddle aimed to be the next Minister of Magic. He would have not cared to look into the identity of the foolish, Unspeakable woman.

"What was she ingesting?" Harry demanded, turning back to Quills and dismissing Riddle entirely. "Clearly, it didn't have a negative effect on me."

"It didn't?" Riddle murmured in cruel disbelief.

Either Quills didn't hear Riddle, or he didn't care to respond to the man. He leaned forward, his interest piquing to high levels. "That's what I'm curious about, Mr. Potter, more than ever. Lily was fascinated with the bond a mother and child shared. Such intimacy and sacrifice. She wanted to _enhance_ that intimacy."

Harry's lip curled. "Explain."

"A mother and her child are connected, both physically and emotionally during the pregnancy. Lily wanted her child to _feel_ her love, her admiration, her utmost devotion." Quills licked his lips. "She wanted to create something akin to an emotional link to her unborn child. It would encourage healthy growth of the fetus and reinforce emotional stability."

"Emotional stability," Harry repeated dryly, finding the whole situation miserably ironic.

"Yes," Quills assented. "She took potions that enforced a bond with you." He leaned forward, coming dangerously close to Harry's personal space. "Which is why I wanted to know if it worked. Did you and your mother have… a close relationship? A bond only you and her shared? Did it result in being especially sensitive to emotions? Like empathy?"

Green eyes stared unblinkingly at Quills, unimpressed with the man's intrigue. Internally, however, he marveled at the situation. Lily Potter was responsible for his Empathy ability. He'd thought, for some reason, he'd been born with it by chance.

But his mother had experimented on him like some… rat.

Harry rolled his neck slowly, eyeing the Unspeakable unfathomably. "Empathy," he mused darkly. "No. I cannot say I was _gifted_ with something so…"

"Emotionally unstable?" Riddle supplied.

His tone was level, impassive, but Harry sensed the man's dark glee, his dark entertainment. Even Tom bloody Riddle saw the irony of the situation. It was unfortunate the man had to witness all this. It was unfortunate, but it was inevitable. Harry just needed to act poised, unaffected.

"Pity." Quills deflated, so did his interest.

"Lily was discharged from the British Ministry," Harry continued impatiently. "So she ran to America to join _their_ Unspeakable team? Do you know who reported her to the Department? Do you know _anyone_ who could tell me about her days as an American Unspeakable?"

While he discovered new information, it wasn't enough. Parker Quills did not plot Lily's demise and Tom Riddle just hadn't cared for his mother at the time. Two players were introduced in the game, but both were quickly eliminated.

"I don't know who reported Lily, but I'm sure it could have been a handful of other coworkers. They did not share her ideals as an expecting mother." Quills shrugged. "I only know Roland Jarvis used to work with the Americans. He's a miserable old coot. You won't get much out of him."

" _Avada Kedavra._ "

And with a flash of green, Parker Quills dropped like a weight.

Ashamedly taken off guard, Harry's eyes widened a fraction as he stared down at the body. Quills settled near Harry's boots, a wet spot forming underneath the dead man's groin from his bladder releasing in death. The pungent smell of urine snapped Harry back to the present.

Coiled tightly, he craned his neck around to look at Tom Riddle.

The Dark Lord lounged like a satisfied cat. With one arm still propped upon the mantle behind him, he caressed his wand between spidery fingers. "He was of no more use to us. Roland Jarvis. Remember that name, Harry. He will be our next conquest."

"That death was unnecessary." Harnessing a fierce irritation, Harry stepped over Quills and slowly advanced nearer to Riddle.

Crimson eyes turned hooded as they keenly watched Harry's approach. As the young man stopped just a foot away, he truly assessed the Dark Lord and came to a sudden realization. It was a challenge. The way the man lounged was shockingly conceited, and yet, he leaned against the mantle enough to put him down to Harry height.

His posture was entirely _Alpha male._ He was stating his dominance over this situation, over Harry. He had no qualms killing others, clearly, but he knew Harry had a unique set of morals that would bristle at such an act.

Harry's spine stiffened and his own posture replicated the dominance. He would not be bested in a physical challenge.

"You have your own reasons to kill, and I have my own."

Riddle stared and Harry easily met his gaze. They stood apart, yet Harry could feel the man's body heat. The tension grew and it blossomed into twisted arousal. Standing opposite of such a powerful and dominating force was exhilarating, only because Harry knew he could stand his own.

The Dark Lord's eyes wavered, intentionally surrendering their contest and gazing wantonly at Harry's lips. The man's tongue wet his lips and a pleased hiss, sounding entirely too serpentine, escaped his mouth. Magic unfolded from the man and began to take shape of that enticing presence Harry encountered in the dining hall earlier.

His muscles clenched, yet he remained solitary and in control. He wanted nothing more than to rake his nails through Riddle's scalp and slam his head against the mantle. Clutch the dark hair, bite that porcelain skin, claim, and…

"I killed an innocent man," Riddle breathed softly, sounding raspy. "Right… _in front of you_." He cocked his head ever so slightly. "Are you envisioning me as one of your victims, Harry? I can assure you, I am a difficult prey to catch."

Harry released a low breath and turned his shoulder on Riddle, instantly giving his body release. He closed his eyes, momentarily embracing Riddle's exposed magic and the sliver of intense desire he let slip towards Harry's Empathy. If he stayed any longer, he would do something he'd regret in the morning.

" _Difficult_ targets are the only prey I find worthwhile," Harry reassured ominously as he swept from the room. "I'd have it no other way with you, Riddle."

Tendrils of magic licked and curled around his ankles as he retreated from the room, slowing him down and teasing him. Harry narrowed his eyes, yet his body still moved gracefully. He'd be damned if he tripped on the way out, though that had been Riddle's intentions.

"I hope to see you for our Yuletide feast, Mr. Potter."

"I have other plans."

Harry slammed the door on his way out.

**. . Dreams . .**

Screams and laughter bombarded the small home as the smell of homemade cooking wafted through the air. Little feet padded through the kitchen and halls and children taunted and teased one another. The Christmas tree in the living room was so tall, nearly half the tree bowed against the ceiling.

Orbs of ever color decorated the needles and lights flashed eccentrically. Someone threw red and gold tinsel over the evergreen, hoping to replicate the Gryffindor spirit. There were presents upon presents bundled under the tree, multi-colored packages spilling over into the sitting area.

Harry smiled. And smiled. His cheeks ached, yet he forced himself to keep a fair expression.

He loved every member of this household, yet that didn't mean he wanted to be in the presence of all of them at _once._ And when it came to loving a Weasley, that meant there were more than enough to go around.

It was a full house this year.

Molly Weasley was a bundle of enthusiastic nerves as she ushered the kids off the couch and into the kitchen. Once she made room, Harry sat down. It wasn't long before she reentered the family room and forced a cup of hot chocolate into his hands.

All the Weasley children were back at the Burrow, and they brought their spouses and herd of children with them. Sirius and Hermione also occupied the home, unable to resist Molly when the woman had raised quite a fuss about them being present. Harry learned it was best to accept the invitation immediately, as opposed to having the Weasley matriarch pester to the point of insanity.

Setting own his hot chocolate, Harry grabbed a handful of mixed nuts. Absentmindedly, he nodded as Ron began talking about Quidditch.

He couldn't shake the events from yesterday, no matter how much he tried to sort through his feelings on the subject. He accepted the assignment, eager to analyze Braun, but what happened _after_ with Riddle and Quills perplexed Harry. He didn't know what he felt about his mother ingesting potions, which later gifted him with Empathy.

And Riddle…

Ever since entering Tom Marvolo Riddle's orbit, things were messy, unorganized. He liked order. Life grew more complicated since interacting with the Dark Lord, and somehow, despite that, Harry enjoyed every minute.

"I don't think they have a shot, Ron. Arrows are hot this year."

Ron turned red. "We have a new Beater—"

"Alenius?" Harry inquired, much to Ginny's amusement. "He's alright, certainly not enough to beat the Arrows."

He caught Hermione's eyes as she sat down on the arm of the couch. She offered a lipless smile, the gesture not reaching her eyes. Her emotions flickered between extreme despondency and longing. The man she saw sitting between Ron and Ginny Weasley was not whom she wanted it to be. Not anymore.

He thought back to their latest conversation at the Quidditch pitch. It hadn't gone well, yet Harry would not take back the things he'd said. He still believed Hermione's knowledge on his _Custos_ identity put both of them at risk. Besides, she wasn't happy any longer.

She was forced behind a mask.

Could she finally relate to how heavy it was to carry such a guise?

"Still," Ron lamented, huffing. "We have a shot." His eyes brightened. "Tickets, mate?"

"I have one with your name on it," Harry reassured. He frowned a moment later as he noticed _another_ wave of uncertainty sitting next to him. He turned his attention to Ginny, noticing her half-attempted grin. "What's wrong?"

Ginny's eyes widened. "Nothing." A furious blush stained her cheeks at his continued stare. "I don't understand how you always know when something upsets me. Not even mum notices."

"That's our Harry."

"The ladies man."

"He has a way with understanding what the ladies need."

At the rather infuriating introduction of the Weasley twins, Harry flashed a satisfied smirk in their direction. They collapsed on the opposite sofa, their noses and ears a bit red from consuming a healthy dose of firewhiskey. Being surrounded by a hoard of bright and rather pure souls somehow tempered the annoyance it caused Harry.

"So?" Harry nudged Ginny with his shoulder.

She flashed him an irritated glance, most likely peeved he brought it up in front of everyone. Nonetheless, _everyone_ waited for her to respond, concerned over her announcement. "One of the Chasers from the Portuguese National Quidditch Team dropped out. They asked me to tryout with the team for the open position."

At her announcement, the shocked silence soon turned into rambunctious cheers. The twins jumped up from their chairs, startling more observers into the living room. Upon hearing the news, they too celebrated, congratulating Ginny on her success.

"So what are you worried about?" Harry asked.

He grinned ear to ear, though his insides turned frigid with anger.

The Dark Lord _made_ this happen. He'd threatened this very same scenario that day at the Quidditch pitch. At the time, Harry thought it was a ridiculous attempt to warn him not to get too involved with other players in their game. Nevertheless, Riddle had somehow made his intimidation come to life.

"It's a month-long tryout, Harry," Ginny responded stiffly through her family's shouts of merriment. "I- I don't think I'll be able to take much time off and see you. We just got back together—"

Harry silenced her with a chaste kiss on her lips. He manipulated her emotions of that of hope, excitement. "I'd hate myself if I was the reason you turned down such an incredible offer. Go. I'm proud of you."

Her eyes brightened and she broke out into a wide smile.

He sat back and watched as she accepted her family's encouragement. It was irritating, more than irritating that Riddle manipulated this. Nonetheless, Harry wouldn't try to stop it when it worked out in _his_ favor. He wouldn't have to worry about Ginny infringing on his privacy, on his free time.

It wasn't long after Ginny's announcement that an owl flew in and dropped a letter on Ron's lap. Harry grew instantly suspicious. His eyes absorbed Ron's expression as he opened the envelope and silently read the letter. The redhead's face grew pale, almost a sickly green.

"I…" he looked up at his family, or, the ones who managed to fit inside the small living room. "I passed my training. I get sworn in on Monday with Shacklebolt as an Auror."

"Two months early?" Molly cried, tears beginning to pool in the corners of her eyes.

Ron nodded, speechless, nearly sick. "Minister Riddle said he'd put in a good word for me, but I never thought it would actually…" he trailed off, a loss for words.

Sirius jumped up with a barking cheer, nearly plowing the poor boy over. In fact, the whole family congregated over to the two youngest Weasley children and Harry easily slipped away, unnoticed. He stood in the hallway leading into the kitchen, staring out into dark evening.

The cheers soon turned distant as he smirked at his reflection.

_Yes, Riddle, you've successfully proven how far your reach extends._

It was if the Dark Lord were preening his feathers, showing off to Harry the extent of his capabilities, his influence.

The Weasleys were all celebrating and giving thanks to a scheming, manipulative Dark Lord who'd worked diligently behind the scenes. Their good fortune only happened because it worked out in Riddle's favor. Even surrounded by family and pure souls, Tom Marvolo Riddle could still reach Harry and capture his complete and utter attention.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**14\. Chapter Fourteen**

Between the Malfoys and McLaggens, Kingsley knew he'd seen enough blonde-haired wizards to last him a lifetime. He'd received plenty of veiled threats to keep silent about the liaison between McLaggen and Malfoy to write a bloody memoir. Their threats were meaningless. The last thing Kingsley wanted to do was bring attention to his failed lead in the _Custos_ case.

There were clues, there were hints, and there was an unlimited supply of information regarding their serial killer. Yet, months later found Kingsley sitting completely dumbfounded.

As were the Unspeakables.

The press thought it fascinating and entertaining. How they could support and condone a cold-blooded killer was beyond Kingsley's line of thinking. Though, he knew he was guilty of taking _Custos'_ side from time to time. What the man did was wrong, but his sense of twisted justice was fathomable.

Fathomable, yes, but not condonable.

A nervous throat cleared at his doorway, instantly putting Kingsley on edge. He glanced up at the interruption and noticed an anxious Weasley standing hopelessly near his door.

"Weasley," Kingsley barked in greeting "What can I do for you this morning?"

The boy's pale face flushed red. "I -er- I was required to meet with you this morning, sir." He forced himself to straighten as he waved a letter in his hand. "For being sworn into the Auror force."

Kingsley's mind drew a blank and he stared uncomprehendingly at Weasley. "You have two months left," he stated rather than asked. There wouldn't be trainees that advanced early unless they showed remarkable skill or they had influential connections. "Give me the letter."

Weasley stumbled in his haste to cross the office and deliver the letter. Kingsley skimmed the letter, immediately noticing Weasley had somehow flattered Minister Riddle enough to warrant an early advancement. It wasn't _unusual_ to see Riddle taking notice of the Aurors-in-Training, but this case was a bit… distinct.

The youngest son of Arthur and Molly Weasley wasn't Kingsley's preferred solider. He possessed skill, but he didn't harness the drive and determination.

"Sit," Kingsley ordered, motioning to the chair opposite of him.

Hastily, Weasley sat and watched the Head Auror skim over his letter. It wasn't long before another interruption sounded at his door. He looked over his reading spectacles, withholding an impatient sigh.

"Sir, we're ready in the briefing room."

He waved a distracted hand towards Auror Grey, nonverbally telling her he'd be in shortly. As his eyes dropped back down to the letter, he couldn't quite piece together why _Riddle_ intended to advance Ronald. Was the Minister trying to make up for brazenly accusing Harry Potter as _Custos_? It would also explain why the man had agreed to work at the Junior Quidditch camp those many days ago.

"Will I…" Weasley trailed off. "Will I be helping with the _Custos_ case, sir?"

Dark eyes slowly slid from the letter to the young wizard across the desk. He noticed Weasley's curious and fascinated gaze on the _Custos_ files. "Why do you want to be an Auror, Mr. Weasley?"

Before an instantons response came from the boy's mouth, another interruption sounded at the door. " _What_?" he barked. Desperately, he glanced at his empty cup of coffee, wondering when he'd finished it. It was Monday morning; surely, he'd gotten his second cup already.

An Unspeakable, cloaked from head to toe, breezed inside his office and deposited a folder on his desk. "We looked into William Stratton as you requested, _sir_."

Shacklebolt waved another distracted hand. "Thanks." He pushed the file aside, unconcerned as it got lost amongst all the other folders. He'd sort through them later. "Your answer, Weasley. Why do you want to become an Auror?"

"To help people, sir. To help fight crime."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "A very generic answer, Mr. Weasley. I'm impressed." Mentally, he recoiled, chastising himself for his sour attitude. It was unsuitable to bring his personal woes to work and let it affect his professionalism. "I would like to hear the reason behind your decision to join the Aurors, not a generic pledge you've heard several times throughout your training."

Ronald lowered his gaze, turning silent and contemplative.

"To answer your earlier question, no. You will not be on the _Custos_ taskforce. An Auror's job is not investigating a string of serial kills, but defending the general public and investigating the misuse of magic. We apprehend wizards who abuse their rights to Dark Magic. We are soldiers and we uphold the law."

Months ago, they reorganized the Auror Department to create a subdivision, the Investigation Department, tasked with finding _Custos._ Most of the Auror Investigators were Auror veterans who possessed a high aptitude of sleuth skills. Kingsley hoped they'd find _Custos_ soon so they could all get back to the job they'd signed up for in the first place. Field work. Duels. Action.

Though, he had a feeling he'd lose some of his Aurors to the Investigation Department. Now that _Custos_ created a new subdivision, many of the members seemed to enjoy chasing paper trails and looking over things with a fine-toothed comb. It would fit the lifestyle of the older witches and wizards.

"I want to be set apart from my older brothers," Weasley suddenly supplied. His mouth curled unsurely. "I know it might be a petty reason for joining the Aurors, but that's why I did it in the first place. I wanted to make a name for myself."

Ambition.

Surprising coming from a Weasley, as the lot of them bled maroon and gold. It was a Slytherin trait and Kingsley did not fault the boy for possessing it. However, ambition was not the same as determination. One could possess great ambition but lack the drive and determination necessary to make it happen.

"Auror Shacklebolt," a voice interrupted from the doorway.

Kingsley took a deep breath, his patience thin. "Yes?"

The woman, a secretary in the administrative offices, smiled sweetly. "It's raining in Yaxley's office, sir. We can't get it to stop."

This time, Kingsley did close his eyes. "Looks like you just received your first task, Mr. Weasley. Welcome to the Auror Department. I'm sure you'll do just fine."

**. . Dreams . .**

"Hogwarts needs help."

Harry's eyebrows skyrocketed despite himself. Before he turned around, he was aware of the cluster of bodies outside his office. Their emotions ranged from hopeful to steel and _stubborn_ determination. It was as if Godric Gryffindor vomited out his emotions and it personified into little humanoids.

Little minions.

He glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes as his assumptions proved correct. A band of six people clambered into his office, all of them previous Gryffindors at Hogwarts. Oliver Wood stood in front of the others, clearly the leader of the group.

"Come again?" Harry inquired.

He set down his quill and turned to give the crowd his attention.

Seeing all of them was like a snapshot from the past. Granted, he saw _all_ of them _all_ the time, yet it was strange seeming them together. Fred, George, Ginny, Angelina, Oliver, and Katie Bell stood across from him, their expressions expectant. He didn't understand _why_ they were here and why they reminded him so much of his days as a student.

They were all adults now.

Oliver cleared his throat and stepped closer. They'd interacted many times before, as Oliver's position as the Puddlemere United Keeper frequently brought him in Harry's circle of contacts. "You asked me to help you at the Junior Quidditch Camp, Harry. I didn't expect payment, but I _do_ want you to hear me out on this."

Harry's eyes narrowed only a minuscule amount. He did not appreciate the comment. His position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports required him to make connections. The favors he asked Quidditch players was part of his job, not out of personal need.

Oliver Wood clearly stepped over the line.

Nonetheless, Harry put on an easy expression and smiled. "I'm listening."

Wood nodded sharply. "My cousin heard a rumor that Hogwarts is hurting financially. Many of their benefactors have dried up years ago and there hasn't been much interest from others to take the vacant positions. Their loans for Muggle-born students are low and it's causing a further distinction between them and pure-bloods. Materials are low, equipment is worn, and resources are limited."

Harry shifted, grimacing.

He hadn't really considered Hogwarts as an entity that _needed_ money. He supposed it made sense. Resources cost money and Muggle-born students would have no gold to their name. Even if their parents converted Muggle money to gold, most the time it wouldn't be nearly enough.

"Your cousin heard this?" He asked, gazing at the group suspiciously. What did they _want_ from him?

"I did. And I confirmed it with Headmistress McGonagall." He flashed a bashful grin. "She didn't outright say anything to me, and what she did tell me, I gave my word I wouldn't mention it to anyone. Well, I want to do something about it. Hogwarts is our home. Yours too, Harry. I think it's time to give back to the school that gave us so many good memories."

The group behind Wood nodded at his words, their emotions solidifying and strengthening.

Harry was going to get a migraine.

"It's unfair that the pure-bloods can afford resources themselves, but even they are going to suffer. Hogwarts won't have enough money for activities, like Quidditch programs. The school is eventually going to make budget cuts. It's going to affect _everyone._ "

"And…" Harry trailed off, tilting his head. "What are you purposing, Wood?"

Suddenly, mischievous grins sprouted on all six faces.

"A charity event." Angelina spoke up, taking over for Oliver. She glanced at George, earning an encouraging nod from her husband. "We want to raise money for Hogwarts. And not only money, but new benefactors. That's where you come in, Harry. Only you can make this happen."

"Gryffindor versus Slytherin!" Fred yelled victoriously, jumping the gun and earning exasperated stares from his comrades.

"Gryffindor versus Slytherin," Harry repeated dully, unimpressed. "I'm not quite seeing how this—"

"It's going to be a throwback match between old members of the Gryffindor team and Slytherin team." Ginny stepped forward this time, a sly smile on her face as she inched closer to her _boyfriend._ "We came up with the idea of a throwback game between two fierce rivals. We'd hold it in the English National Quidditch Stadium if you're able to organize the event."

Harry shook his head, but Katie interrupted.

"There'd be food. My father would cater the event and all the proceeds would go to Hogwarts. My uncle will also supply the booze. And all the money from the tickets would go to Hogwarts." She exhaled loudly. "The players will play for free, of course. It could become an annual event—"

"And who are the _throwback_ players?" Harry asked.

"Us of course," Fred boasted, gesturing around the room. "We were the best Gryffindor team to step foot in Hogwarts, after all."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And the Slytherin team? Who would you get that would agree—"

"Marcus Flint, for one. Cassius Warrington, Graham Montague, Miles Bletchley, Derrick, Bole, and Krum." Wood appeared proud of himself. "Over half those players are professional Quidditch players, Harry, as you know. They alone will draw a crowd. I got them all to agree to the charity event. Believe it or not, those slimy Slytherins want to keep Hogwarts afloat just as much as anyone."

"Krum," Harry inquired in disbelief.

Despite his incredulity, he knew Wood had planned things out accordingly. Oliver Wood by _himself_ would draw a crowd, especially amongst the females. Graham Montague would draw a crowd. Bletchley, Ginny, Angelina, and Flint… they were all particularly popular amongst the British Quidditch spectators.

All the wizards and witches within the area had attended Hogwarts. They'd be intrigued with a throwback game for a school they loved. And it was a worthy cause. Hogwarts would make quite a hefty sum of gold.

Wood shifted. "Well, it's either Krum or Harper. Krum would be the only non-Hogwarts alumni. He owes me a favor. I think he'd rake in a lot of tickets and we could raise the admission amount if he shows up…" He trailed off and smiled mysteriously. "Besides, I think you'd like a bit of competition, Harry. Both of you were the youngest Seekers to make a National team. He _wants_ to play you."

Harry froze.

And then he laughed.

"Ok," he consented. "It's a good idea, brilliant really. I can reserve the pitch and get things rolling for all of you." He sat back in his chair, enjoying their relieved expressions. " _But._ You need to find a Seeker for the _throwback_ Gryffindor team. I will not be participating."

A chorus of fierce rebuttals came from the group and Harry shook his head.

"No."

"Harry—"

"No."

They quieted.

"It's only for one game, Harry," Oliver tried softly. "I need you with us. It wouldn't be right if you weren't beside us as our Seeker." He huffed. "No matter how modest you'd like to be, you were extremely popular when you played with the English. The fans will be ecstatic that you're back. _For one game._ "

"This can be our last event together before I leave for Portugal," Ginny picked up after Oliver. "I know your spine injury makes it uncomfortable to sit on a broom, but you told me it feels more like a phantom pain now. You'd be allowed to take pain potions to help you through just this _once_."

"It'll be a brutal match, mate," George tempted. "Ron already agreed to be the reserve Keeper. There will be _lots_ of reserves. Lots of fouls. Lots of blood. Lots of Slytherin bashing."

"It's going to be an adult game," Fred agreed. "We're going to put on a _show_."

"And it's for charity," Angelina chimed in.

Harry looked at Katie expectantly. "Are you going to add anything?"

She smiled bashfully. "It's for Hogwarts? We all know you love flying, Harry."

Harry looked at their eager faces, not wanting to do it in the least. The prospect of flying _was_ a bit tempting, however. He'd gotten out of Quidditch because it had consumed his time and energy he'd needed to spend on becoming _Custos._ Keeping up with Quidditch practice, traveling, and close social bonds made _Custos_ impossible. He'd sacrificed his love of flying for a better purpose.

What could one game hurt? Besides, it was for Hogwarts and charity. And George reassured there would be blood drawn. What kind of cold-hearted individual would Harry be if he said no?

_Oh, wait… too late._

"Alright."

They preened in their victory while Harry swallowed his instant regret. This was going to put a strain on Riddle's assignment. Ginny indicated they'd do this before she left for Portugal. That was within the next few weeks. Undersecretary Braun needed to be eliminated within the same timetable.

It was a challenge, but Harry appreciated a good challenge.

"Good." Wood clapped his hands. "We start practice tomorrow evening."

Harry grimaced.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Loud slurping resonated across the office as William Stratton carefully sipped his scalding tea. Harry's dissatisfied expression mirrored back at him through Stratton's dark glasses. A cup of spicy chai tea sat abandoned next to him on the coffee table, though judging from Stratton's pleased grunts, he imagined it to be enchanting.

"So…" Harry trailed off quietly, staring at the young doctor across from him. "You wanted to resume our lessons in return for my alibi at the Ministry. Fair enough. But why tea tasting? I thought this was an elaborate ruse you conjured when you spoke to Auror Shacklebolt—"

"How is the spiced chai, Harry?" Stratton interrupted innocently.

Harry sat against the plushy chair, impatient. "Brilliant."

Stratton sighed woefully as he placed down his saucer and cup. "If you've given me a smokescreen the past two years, I think its best we start from the beginning. No clever guises, Mr. Potter. Or… shall I address you as _Custos_ in these meetings?"

The psychiatrist was an elusive man Harry had yet to figure out. He gave off the impression of being naïve and strange. He used silly exclamations and flamboyant gestures. His behavior nearly mimicked the late Albus Dumbledore when the Headmaster felt particularly playful.

Despite the ridiculousness of William Stratton, the man was also brilliant. Harry didn't know how much information Hermione delved to the man when she approached him about Harry's Doppelgänger, but the psychiatrist had pieced many things together. He knew Harry's identity and he knew everything they'd talked about the last two years had been an act.

Harry traced over the man's slight frame, more specifically, his ridiculously _thin_ frame. He then looked at the dark glasses covering the eyes and the cane lying forgotten across the sofa.

It would be easy to take him out physically. Yet, despite Harry's survival instincts, he somehow knew the man wouldn't go to the Ministry about his alter ego. If that were the case, he would have done it long ago.

" _Custos_ ," Stratton repeated, drawing Harry's calculating gaze back on him. "It means guard. Watchmen. Protector."

"I didn't sit down with the media and go through prospective names."

William was silent for a moment before he laughed pleasantly. "I always enjoy your sarcasm, _Custos_." He was visually impaired, nearly blind, so he couldn't have seen Harry's eyes narrow in displeasure. Yet he commented on it. "What?" he inquired innocently. "Don't you relate to the name _Custos_?"

Harry withheld a sigh. Therapy was a waste of his time. "Of course I do," he responded tightly.

If he really wanted to, he could forgo his agreement on these _sessions_. He could find a way to wipe the man's memories completely and use this free time to his advantage. Yet, something stopped him from taking such a risky action. Not only would it leave prospective loose ends, but Harry was curious about the man.

"You like the name."

"I don't particularly care."

"The tea, Harry. It's going to get cold."

Green eyes blinked as Stratton took another loud slurp from his tea. "You have remarkable table etiquette, Dr. Stratton." He hissed slowly when he remembered Riddle saying the same thing to him when they'd first started their game. "It's absolutely riveting to watch."

Stratton looked up and made a pinching gesture with his free hand. "I find the taste amplified so much more when you execute an efficacious slurp."

"You make it sound like a science," Harry drawled, unimpressed.

"Oh, _oh Harry,_ " William tutted. "It is a science." He leaned back, watching Harry through those dark lenses. "How is Hermione Granger doing? She is a remarkable witch, is she not?"

"I thought we were talking about _Custos_."

"Isn't Miss Granger a part of _Custos'_ life?"

Harry pressed his lips together. "You can stop referring to me like that. I don't see myself as two different identities. I am Harry and I am _Custos_. Yes, Hermione is a part of my life. And she's doing swell."

"Surely you must acknowledge the difference in your two identities, Harry."

"I only give the public what they want to see in Harry Potter. I am still one person. One entity."

Silence. "If I'm interacting with the true Harry Potter right now, I daresay you're trying too hard to mask yourself. You aren't much different from the man who's come in my office the past two years. The only difference, I see, is a more confident version. A man touched by tragedy, by darkness. Why do you think your loved ones would not like this new you?"

Harry stared. "If you think my new _self_ is this polite and reserved, I overestimated your observational skills." He smiled twistedly. "I am rather tame right now."

"Possibly." William cocked his head. "Perhaps with your loved ones you'd be this _tame_ as , you try to act jovial and good-natured. Upbeat. Maybe you could slowly reveal your true self with them. Moody. Cranky. A pompous arse."

Despite himself, a wary smile curled his lips. "I don't think that's how a psychiatrist is supposed to talk with their patients."

"No?" Stratton sat back in his seat, curling his hands greedily around his teacup. "I was never one for traditional methods. Then again, I never had an infamous serial killer as a patient. Perhaps it's time to throw out the rule book." He smiled suddenly. "I do wonder… how is Tom Riddle? Has he taken an interest in you?"

Harry's eyes lowered with suspicion. "I don't—"

"Come now, Harry. You two are much alike. It's no wonder he found out your identity. I imagine he's very interested in you."

"Interested," he repeated.

"Is that not the right word? Obsessed?" Suddenly, Stratton smiled with teeth. "I'm daresay it goes both ways. Does it not?" He then sipped his tea, hiding his expression. "Now that is one man I wouldn't want to see under the guise. Curiosity killed the cat, Harry. It reminds me of my Aunt Madrid. She was very, very heavy, you see. As a child, I thought she was a balloon. Just to make certain she had legs, I once lifted the corner of her dress and peeked—"

"Are we finished tonight, Dr. Stratton?" Harry interrupted, pressing a hand to his temple. "I'm tired."

"Of course. The stress of acting so _tame_ must be very challenging on you." Stratton set down his teacup and patted for his cane. "We can finish my story about Aunt Madrid next session. You'll find it quite amusing, I'm sure."

He stood up alongside Harry, his tall height evident.

"I can hardly wait," Harry quipped, studying the man.

He wondered why Stratton hadn't pressed about his victims. In fact, he hardly touched on anything relating to _Custos'_ deeds. He seemed more inclined to discuss Harry's frame of mind. Yet, he supposed it made sense. Psychiatric help was about the mind, not an in-depth interview about the logistics of previous crimes.

As he made his way out the door, Stratton stopped him.

"Pompousness aside, I think your company was enjoyable, Harry. I don't believe your friends would see you for any less if you chose to shed the _old_ you."

Harry paused, his hand on the doorknob. A slow, serpentine smile crossed his lips as he realized Stratton's intentions. Tonight had been played brilliantly. Tonight, Stratton tried to humanize him. He tried to take away the serial killer and focus on the man. By trying to convince Harry he could be himself with his loved ones, he gambled on the fact he'd do just that.

After all, if his friends accepted his new self, he may feel inclined to stop his _dark urges._

"It's too late for humanizing, Stratton, though I appreciate your attempts." He looked at the solitary man from over his shoulder. "I'm not quite the monsters I kill, but I am unquestionably no longer human."

Stratton frowned. "Goodnight, Harry."

Inclining his head, Harry exited the office and quietly shut the door behind him.

**. . Collide . .**

Hit Wizards.

That's what they called the wizards working at the Ministry in the Law Enforcement Department. They were separate from Aurors and Auror Investigators and a far cry from Unspeakables. Though they required high NEWT scores upon entry, Harry liked to think they were merely the brute force behind an Auror's orders.

Walden Macnair liked to consider himself a Hit Wizard.

Harry stood calmly on the other side of Macnair's wards, staring at the distant home. A few weeks ago, he'd stood at this exact location. Only, back then, his presence had been predetermined. Riddle had all but harnessed a collar around Harry's neck and dragged him here under false pretenses.

It had been a trap back then, but they'd used real bait. A man, so tainted he made Harry ill, was not easily forgotten. But Riddle forgot. Malfoy forgot. Snape forgot. They'd all preened in their success at capturing the uncatchable _Custos_.

Yes, how very clever of them.

He smiled grimly, his gloved fingers moving ever so slightly at his sides.

Tom Riddle would never expect Harry to return to Walden's home. Not only because it was a sore reminder of a mistake, but also because Macnair was Riddle's follower. Unfortunately, for Riddle, there were no requests to leave his followers alone. No immunity. Moreover, if there had been a request, Harry would have acknowledged it with a nod before completely disregarding it later.

He was not Riddle's minion. It was due time for a reminder. For the both of them.

Yes, he'd scope out Undersecretary Braun for Riddle _and_ himself. They had a common interest currently and Riddle had delicious incentive of staying with him. Finding those who killed his parents was undeniably sweet.

Harry turned back to the wards, unconcerned as they hissed at his presence. Assessing the solid wall of wards one last time, Harry reached into his cloak pocket and removed a letter opener. It wasn't so much the _letter opener_ that would let him through the wards, but the essence of the small blade's owner. There was enough fingerprints on the object to give him what he needed.

The man's name was even engraved on the blade.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

He'd picked it up during his last visit to the man's manor. While Harry was an enemy to Macnair's wards, he had an assumption that Tom Riddle could pass undetected. He'd researched various ways to break ancient wards and came across a nifty ritual that would personify the essence of an object's owner. As long as said owner was friendly with the wards, it would create a bubble of protection for Harry to manipulate.

Crouching at the foot of the wards, he embedded the letter opener in the ground. Taking out a wand he'd pickpocketed off the streets, he began reciting the Latin incantation.

The small blade began to glow, giving off a brilliant golden hue. A dark mist leaked from the blade and began to take shape in front of Harry. It grew limbs and stretched tall and lean. Soon, a featureless, humanoid shape stood patiently for Harry, its height and silhouetted figure the exact replica of Tom Riddle.

"Hello, love," Harry greeted pleasantly, dropping the Latin incantation.

Not wasting any time, Harry stepped into the dark silhouette. Riddle's faint essence embraced his shorter form, hugging his body like a second skin. Harry held up his gloved hands, seeing a faint glowing around his limbs. The spell wouldn't last long. But he didn't need it for long.

Confidently, he reached out to the wards, noticing they'd stopped hissing long ago. His hand slipped past the wards, later his entire arm. No alarm sounded. No nasty hex was triggered.

Harry gave a sick, cold smile.

He crossed the wards completely and all but glided across the snow-covered grounds. The house loomed before him, completely and utterly dark in the late hours. Was Macnair tucked underneath his warm sheets, sleeping like a baby? Harry hoped so. He enjoyed seeing such twisted men at their most vulnerable.

With a simple unlocking charm, Harry entered the home.

Darkness greeted him, but he embraced it. He quietly shut the door behind him, least Macnair be alerted from the rush of cold air. As his boots roamed the wood floors, they were silent and stealthy. He gazed around his surroundings, curious, but he kept all his senses open in case Macnair surprised him.

The home was modest despite Macnair's status as a pure-blood wizard. It stank of mildew and some sort of chemical Harry couldn't put his finger on. He passed the front parlor and escaped into the back office. His boots stopped abruptly at the threshold of the office, surprise lining his features as he gazed at the… unique décor.

Heads.

A lot of them. Not human, of course, but an array of exotic magical creatures.

So that's what he smelt. The chemical throughout the house was used for taxidermy, similar to Muggle formaldehyde. His eyes lingered on the unicorn head, noticing the odd color mane. Unicorns were pure white. Foals were silver or gold. Yet this particular unicorn had a mane of pitch, black hair.

Centaurs possessed pointed ears, and yet, the one Macnair displayed had rounded ears. Harry then looked to the merperson, noticing the row of human-like teeth inside a mouth that should have housed broken fangs. The Hippogriff, who normally had orange eyes, had a set of baby blues.

Clearly, Macnair thought he was pretty smart. Slaying these animals were illegal in itself, but if one did not know general distinctions of magical creatures, they would have never noticed the human body parts planted strategically on these displayed heads.

These were Macnair's trophies.

And he got _off_ on showing them to oblivious guests.

Harry's gaze then settled on the figure slumbering on the settee. The divan sat near the kindled fire and underneath the displayed animal creatures. Harry wondered if Macnair jacked off every night to the sight of his silly creations. Judging from the sheer _taint_ around this man, Harry wouldn't doubt it.

Even in slumber, violence, bloodlust, and immorality surrounded Macnair. If this was the man in a defenseless vulnerable stage, Harry shuddered to imagine him fully awake and conscious.

Green eyes slid closed, embracing in such foul darkness.

As he opened them, he noticed the execution axe propped in the corner of the room. Harry frowned, digging out his lovable dagger. He looked at his familiar weapon and then to the large axe.

And then he considered the wall of magical creatures.

"Huh." Harry smiled. "I am rather poetic at times, aren't I?" He tucked his dagger back into his boot and made his way over to the axe. "It's not that I _try_ to come up with such poetic demises, they just present themselves to me. Who do you imagine will be more impressed? Riddle or Shacklebolt?"

Macnair stirred and Harry curled a gloved hand around the axe.

He walked over to the stirring man and looked down at the hideous wizard. "You're right," he agreed with Macnair's silence. "Riddle will be far from impressed to see his follower in such a state. But I digress. He shouldn't have used you as bait." Green eyes met drowsy blue. "Good evening, Macnair. It's so good to see you awake."

The man jerked up, wand in hand. Impressive reflexes. But Harry was faster.

He channeled emotions of terror, horror, fright… and utter hopelessness towards Walden. The man slumped, his grip on his wand loosening.

"Shh," Harry soothed. He reached out and curled a hand around the man's wand, tugging it from his grip. "There, there, Walden. There is no need for any wands tonight." He deposited the wand into the fire behind him. "I think it's time you really become _one_ with your display over there… don't you agree?"

He curled both hands around the axe and stared down at the trembling man. What did Parker Quills insinuate an Empath ability? A gift? Could a gift cause such paralysis in grown men?

Harry stared down at Macnair, relentlessly feeding him wave after wave of terror. He quite liked the power he wielded over men like Macnair. They acted so haughty, so untouchable when they preyed on their victims. They couldn't possibly comprehend the terror the men and women went through at their hands.

But Harry could give them a taste.

He didn't care what Hermione thought, nor what William Stratton and Tom Riddle believed. Harry would never stop. He would never see his actions as anything other than rightful vengeance.

Macnair's body trembled and perspiration pooled at his temples before dripping down his face. The whites around his eyes were prominent as the fear reached an all-time high. His mind couldn't fathom why he was experiencing these emotions, but Harry's Empathy was far too strong to conquer.

Harry reached up and dropped his hood, his features highlighted by the lit fire.

"P-Potter," Macnair accused hoarsely.

Through the falsified fear and terror, Macnair did not appear surprised to see him. And why should he? Lord Riddle most likely told him about Harry. Despite the warnings, _no one_ took Harry seriously. It was all too easy to get inside Macnair's home and reclaim the prey that was once denied to him. Riddle truly thought Harry acknowledged the unspoken rule that his followers were untouchable.

The man would be furious.

Harry was eager to see Riddle's counterattack.

He lifted the axe and poised it just inches from Macnair's grief-stricken expression. "This won't do at all." He sighed. "I don't know about you, Walden, but I don't quite think your expression is where it needs to be. You're going to be on display, after all." A smile crossed his features. "Why don't you give me a big smile, hm?"

Manipulating the man's emotions one last time, Harry grunted, pleased, before swinging Macnair's axe.

_Justice._


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**15\. Chapter Fifteen**

The Aurors were especially antsy that morning.

Shacklebolt knew immediately that there'd been another _Custos_ murder. Much to his surprise, the summoning originated from Walden Macnair's home. When they arrived, they'd noticed instantly that an unknown group had already searched the house. Many things were missing, drawers were overturned, and even portraits were gone.

"I hardly think _Custos_ has turned into a burglar."

Kingsley grunted, casting an unhappy look around the foyer. Next to him, Minister Riddle stood, both of them having just arrived. The older wizard appeared impassive as ever, though Kingsley knew the man had been close to Walden Macnair, just as he'd been with Estella Zabini.

It was another direct challenge from _Custos._

"Whomever found the body must have searched the home," Kingsley provided to the lingering Auror Investigators. "I'm willing to bet that Macnair was involved with things he shouldn't have been involved in. Unfortunately, we will not find any incriminating trails leading to other witches or wizards. They made sure of that."

"Sir, he left you a message," Auror Grey informed sternly, walking through a set of double doors. "In the office."

Kingsley started, surprised. He took another glance around the foyer. Men walked everywhere and dusted the home for prints, hairs, and anything of importance. It was a mess. "The crime scene has been contaminated!" Kingsley hollered to his men. "We cannot trust the leads we see here today."

He followed Grey, Riddle somehow already leading the way.

They entered the office and Kingsley stopped abruptly. His eyes immediately fell on the decapitated body sprawled out on the sofa. There were blood splatters everywhere. The walls. The floors. The ceilings. It was a messy kill, but not as messy as they'd seen from _Custos'_ earlier kills.

Unspeakables crouched near the body, dissecting every inch of space. They'd come up empty-handed. Kingsley knew that without a doubt. _Custos_ had been confident enough leaving behind the murder weapon, after all. Propped innocently against the far wall was Walden's Ministry-issued execution weapon.

His attention drifted above the murder weapon and to the array of creature heads. He grimaced at the sight, feeling especially irritated at the sheer crime of slaughtering these creatures. His eyes settled on the unicorn, immediately noticing the missing horn. He found it a moment later, planted strategically in the middle of Macnair's forehead.

"Bloody brilliant, isn't it?" One of the Aurors snickered. "Talk about irony!" One look from Riddle shut the man up quickly.

"He was mounted on the wall next to his trophies," Riddle commented. "How very clever of _Custos_."

Indeed. Walden Macnair's decapitated head balanced on the wall next to his magical creatures, the unicorn's horn planted gruesomely on the man's forehead. Unnervingly, like all of _Custos'_ previous victims, Macnair smiled even in death. What was most unusual, however, were the words spelled out in blood.

_He has beautiful blue eyes. Wouldn't you say, Kingsley?_

Auror Grey rocked to the balls of her feet, seemingly anxious for Kingsley to connect the dots. "Do you see it, sir?"

He withheld an exasperated sigh. Nonetheless, he stepped closer and looked at the severed heads. Walden Macnair had blue eyes, Kingsley noticed, but the words were written under the Hippogriff, not Macnair. He turned his attention to the Hippogriff, immediately noticing the unnerving, blue eyes.

"Hippogriffs—"

"Don't have eyes like that," Kingsley finished before Grey. He then looked at the other creatures. "And I doubt unicorns have black manes."

"Those are human remnants," the Unspeakable confirmed. "Just as the teeth on the Mereperson and the ears on the Centaur. Judging from the skilled taxidermy, I believe Walden Macnair was the perpetrator for these crimes. We'll take samples in order to identify the witches and wizards he killed."

"Are there any leads on _Custos_?" Kingsley asked softly, feeling stretched thin.

"No."

An unexplained anger coursed through Kingsley. Consumed by the intensity, he turned and punched the paneled wall. His wandless magic, coupled with his fury, caused his hand to go straight through the wall and into the next room. He garnered the immediate attention of his men, though that did nothing to quell his anger.

"I want him _found_!" He turned and motioned angrily at the corpse. "I want to overturn every lead and relook at all the evidence. I want a warrant for Ashley Locke's memories from that night at Erik Slore's potions lab. I want Draco Malfoy, Cormac McLaggen, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger questioned again. I want a list of all the men and women who have been convicted of crimes and later pardoned. We will shadow these men and women. If _Custos_ targets them, we'll know."

Auror Grey shifted. "My brother and Erik Slore were never convicted, sir. Slore was a shadow in the underground." She looked at all the men assembled. "It's a good start, to shadow those who have escaped the legal system, but it won't be entirely fool-proof. We know _Custos_ can find those who did not face convictions."

" _Custos_ did not kill your brother," another Auror Investigator argued. "It was a copy-cat. We all agreed on that—"

"It was _Custos_ ," Grey interrupted. "He lost control. He was covering his arse by making it look like a copy-cat."

Auror Anderson shrugged mockingly. "What the hell do you think he possesses? Some kind of super power to identify criminals off the street? That's a load of bullocks, Grey, and you know it! Erik Slore was a _known_ criminal amongst shady folk. He might not have faced the Ministry for any suspected crimes, but he was infamous in the underground. That's enough to bring attention to _Custos_."

" _Enough!_ " Kingsley ordered as soon as Grey opened her mouth to argue back.

"Sir," an Unspeakable addressed, appearing suddenly at Kingsley's side. "We found this at the foot of the wards." He handed a plastic evidence bag to the Head Auror. "When we arrived here, the wards were still intact. The serial killer found a way to enter undetected. This is how."

Kingsley took the evidence. "A letter opener," he responded, unimpressed. "I fail to see the key to opening a set of powerful wards with an office accessory."

"It's a wicked spell, sir. If you have an object that belongs to someone who is trusted to the wards, you can _leak_ the essence out of said object and cloak yourself with it. In this case, _Custos_ used the identity of someone who was keyed into Macnair's wards. Once he conjured enough essence out of the letter opener, that essence veiled his foreign presence and the wards recognized him as someone else."

"What kind of essence belongs in a letter opener?"

"The oils from the fingers. Fingerprints, mostly."

Kingsley peered closely at the letter opener, immediately recognizing the name engraved on the blade. He grunted and handed it to the silent, but observing Minister.

"It seems like you and Walden Macnair were close enough to warrant safe passage through the wards, Minister Riddle." He watched Riddle's expression, noticing the tightening around the man's mouth. "And _Custos_ knew this." He considered the man. "Perhaps we're looking for someone who has a vendetta against you, Minister."

"The spell is a powerful one," the Unspeakable continued. "We're looking at a magically capable wizard."

Kingsley frowned. "I thought we were looking at someone who was magically incompetent." He looked around at his men. "Judging from his preferred method of physical combat and Muggle means."

"Well you just said it, didn't you Auror Shacklebolt?" Riddle mused silkily. "It is his _preferred_ method. A serpent can kill by either strangulation or by using its fangs. A wizard can kill by magic or Muggle means. Just because he picks one over the other does not mean he is _incompetent_ with the other."

Minister Riddle handed the letter opener back to the Unspeakable, his brown eyes bright.

A sudden gasp stilled the inhabitants in Macnair's office.

All eyes turned to an ashen Auror Grey.

"You're right, Anderson," she whispered breathlessly. Excitement danced off her. " _Custos_ would need a superpower to find criminals off the street." Clearly, she'd been musing over the earlier topic of conversation. Her wide eyes turned to Kingsley. " _Custos_ is an Empath!"

A thick and overbearing silence met her statement and Kingsley stilled.

"He'd have to be one powerful son of a bitch to have that kind of Empathy, Grey," Auror Anderson replied, though his bark was not nearly as stringent as usual. "We're talking extremely powerful to penetrate through the victim's mind in their moment of pain or terror."

"I know," she said quietly. "But it explains everything, doesn't it? How he _knows_ if his victims are guilty or not. How… how all the victims died with smiles on their faces? These people, like Macnair, must give off a guilty emotion of some sort and _Custos_ senses them."

Kingsley rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I've heard of Empathy, but nothing as strong as you're insinuating, Grey. They feel emotions, yes, but I didn't think Empaths could _manipulate_ emotions to this degree." He looked up at her crestfallen expression. "But as of now, this is the only lead we have. It's a good lead. We can't exactly advertise to the public that we need all the Empaths to register at the Ministry, but we'll find a way to use this to our advantage."

He suddenly looked around at his men.

"Where the hell is Sirius Black?"

As if summoned, an Auror outside the _Custos_ taskforce rushed inside the office. His face turned green at the sight of the gore before he looked pointedly at Kingsley. "Auror Shacklebolt, sir. There has been an attack on the Weasley residence. Witnesses place Sirius Black as our prime suspect."

Through his shock, Kingsley completely overlooked the satisfied expression on Riddle's face.

**. . Dreams . .**

"I've felt the Imperius Curse, Harry," Sirius whispered brokenly into his hands. "During Auror training, we all had to experience the Unforgivable. Some of us could throw it off, others couldn't. I was one of the few who could. But _this_ … this was something else altogether."

Harry stood at Sirius' side, a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

The Auror slumped even further and looked up from his hands. His eyes were unfocused, paying no heed to the passing Aurors and the suspicious looks they sent his way. "It was a magic I wasn't familiar with. It took complete control over me and I couldn't do anything to stop it. It was _dark_ and cold… suffocating."

In a small voice, he added, "I never want to feel it again."

Guilt over what happened could have been the driving force behind Sirius' words. However, Harry _felt_ the man's unadulterated terror over what had happened. The man was truly afraid of the magic he'd experienced.

It was a bit ironic, really. Sirius just described the magic that had aroused Harry into excitement not too long ago. Yet, here was Sirius, a grown man who was utterly terrified of said magic.

"And the Weasleys… Merlin," Sirius bemoaned.

Harry snapped back to the present and offered the man his undivided attention. "No one here believes you did it intentionally, Sirius." Well, that wasn't exactly true. The human race was weak-minded and were unable to form their own perceptions. "Most importantly, the Weasleys don't think you were responsible."

Sirius stiffened. "Was anyone—?"

"No one was seriously injured, Sirius."

Before he could further comfort his godfather, a lavender plane flew into the office amongst the dozens of others whizzing about. Only, this one was for him. Just as it was about to stab Harry in the nose, he grabbed the inner-office message and opened it.

_My office._

It was unsigned and especially vague, but Harry knew Riddle was _summoning_ him. He stretched in satisfaction and intentionally turned back to Sirius, determined to take his time with his godfather. He stuffed the crumpled note in his cloak pocket, musing on the current situation.

It was an eye for an eye. A challenge and an answer.

A very _surprising_ answer from Riddle, actually.

Harry hadn't expected the man to counter in such a way. He should have been upset, furious even, but he wasn't. The Weasleys who'd been home at the time were hurt, but there'd been no casualties. The Burrow was destroyed, but that could be rebuilt. Sirius would experience guilt and the cold memory of the corrupted magic, but overall, he'd be declared innocent and walk free.

It was a subtle message, a rather _light_ message from Riddle, but the underlying meaning was incredibly heavy.

The Dark Lord knew where to hurt Harry. He could have made it so much worse, but he hadn't. He'd just wanted to give Harry a glimpse at the sort of leverage he held over him.

Said leverage was noted.

Harry had a weakness. And Riddle would never hesitate to prey on said weakness if the situation deemed it necessary.

"Do you have to leave?" Sirius inquired, looking at the crumpled ball of parchment in Harry's pocket. "You're late for work. You should probably get going, Harry. Thank you for being here, but I need to face the questioning alone."

"If you need me to—"

Sirius shook his head in interruption. "You're right. I'm not to blame for this. But I'll find the sick bastard who did this."

The best the Aurors could do in this situation was chase their tails. No one would possibly find a motive behind such an attack on Sirius and the Weasleys. They'd unknowingly stepped in the crossfire of Harry and Riddle's private challenge. Such twistedness was lost to ordinary men and women.

"If you're sure."

Sirius smiled ruefully. "Go."

Harry turned his back and escaped the Auror Department just as the large group of Investigators entered. In terms of emotions, the consensuses amongst the _Custos_ taskforce was rather flat line. It was a bit disappointing that they'd gotten used to his theatrics by now, then again, he'd be morbidly amused if the general emotion amongst the group remained nausea.

He began his trek to the Minister's office. Despite his indifference, his fingers twitched at his sides and he rolled his neck. He was rather excited. And curious. Such emotions always put a strain on his reoccurring tics.

"I'm here to see Minister Riddle."

The Minister's secretary looked up at Harry, unimpressed with his ruffled appearance. "He's free to see you." Without getting out of her chair, she flicked her wand and opened the door to the inner offices.

He paid no heed to her disapproving stare as he dodged between the cubicles and towards the open office at the end of the hall. As soon as he crossed the threshold into _his_ office, the door shut behind him, caging him inside. It was a bit curious why the man summoned him in such a public way. Though, he was positive Riddle would have an adequate explanation should someone ask why he'd summoned Harry Potter.

At Harry's presence, Riddle disregarded everything on his desk in favor of analyzing him closely.

Too closely.

Harry endured the stare, his pulse quickening eagerly at the man's mere presence. He thought back to Stratton's comment about the likelihood both men shared the same obsession with each other. He truly wondered if Riddle could tear his head out of his own arrogant arse and appraise the potential of someone else.

Hell, Harry was being modest. He _knew_ Riddle was fascinated with him.

He thought back to Christmas with the Weasleys and their unexpected fortune. Not only had Riddle flaunted his position of power then, but he'd also proven how possessive he could be of Harry's attention. Giving Ron and Ginny such gifts effectively tore their focus and time away from Harry, leaving him open to Riddle's influence.

The Minister's dark eyes glanced briefly over to the clock before settling once again on Harry. "I should feel honored at your timely appearance, Mr. Potter. It's as if you were eager to get here."

"Impressing you with my punctuality wasn't my intentions. Quite the opposite, actually."

What a load of bullocks. A week hadn't even gone by since he'd last seen Riddle, and yet, seeing the man again sent an unanticipated thrill down Harry's spine. It was a pathetic realization, simply because he never intended his preoccupation with Riddle to reach this point.

He'd do well not to fan the flames any more than necessary.

Riddle stared impassively before a thin smile curled his lips. Something sinister lightened the man's eyes. "I am curious to know the game you're playing with me, Harry."

Harry remained by the door. "It's not really a game if it needs explaining, is it?"

The Dark Lord delighted under his words. Sitting back in his chair, his gaze sharpened. "I understand the situation perfectly enough. It needs no explanation. I just find myself simply interested to know what your intentions are." He lifted a pale hand and pointed to the chair. "Please sit."

Green eyes dropped to the offered chair before he pushed away from the door. Instead of sitting, he circled around and observed the portraits under the watchful gaze of his… friendly nemesis? His hostile alley?

Merope Gaunt caught his eyes before turning and escaping her portrait. He considered her retreat.

"You wanted to demonstrate that no one controls you."

Riddle had somehow approached him unnoticed, yet Harry remained deadpan to the close presence of the other man. He felt the heat coming from Riddle and the subtle caress of dark magic against his exposed neck.

"But I already knew as much, which is why my counter attack lacked bite. It wouldn't be fair to punish you for something I accepted when I first discovered your true identity." Riddle exhaled, intentionally breathing across Harry's neck. "But if you continue to challenge me, child, I am obligated to warn you that our stakes in this _game_ are far too dissimilar to be fair."

Not one to allow such intimate physical intimidation, Harry turned and faced Riddle directly. He smirked at the proximity, not inclined to lean away despite Riddle's height advantage. In fact, the stifling closeness and the man's entertaining display of dominance only encouraged Harry.

"Yes, you have my weaknesses figured out, don't you, Riddle? Let's hope your assumptions are correct in case you decide to exploit them."

Riddle's eyes lowered. "Assumptions?" he repeated fondly. "Killing Macnair was an inconvenience to me. In no way would it be a mere _inconvenience_ to you if one of your loved ones faced the same fate. You have some sort of duty to protect them despite your clear disassociation since becoming _Custos_."

Harry scoffed, encouraged by the unrestrained tension between them. If Riddle _knew_ how his mere presence affected Harry, the Dark Lord would only be encouraged to press further. "One of these days, Riddle, I'll find your Achilles' heel and level the playing field."

It was difficult to look away from the Dark Lord, even in his Minister guise. Because of their focused eye contact, it became instantly apparent when Riddle's attention slowly dropped to his lips. Harry stood rigidly as a cold hand descended against his cheek. Long fingers stroked alongside his jawline before turning into greedy claws.

In the past, Harry would have punched the man in the face for even _considering_ such an invasive act, but he _allowed_ it because he was _curious._

Using his possessive hold to his advantage, the older wizard leaned down and claimed his lips. Harry smirked into the kiss, feeling an exhilarating shiver rush through his body at such intimate contact. Kisses were rare for Harry. Those he had trifled with weren't so lucky to catch his lips in a kiss, as he hadn't been inclined to do such a pointless act when he just wanted release.

But now he was allowing Riddle leeway.

Harry stiffened when Riddle forcibly tugged him closer and buried a clawed hand in his hair. The man's kiss had gone from slow and sensual to needy and dominating.

Well, this just wouldn't do.

He curled his hands around Riddle's cloak and effectively turned them around. He slammed the older man against the wall, causing the trinkets on the shelves to shake at the action. His fingers raked down Riddle's chest, a claiming gesture, but also meant to keep the man against the wall.

He deepened the kiss considerably, feeding the Master Legilimens emotions of purely twisted glee and lusty excitement. It probably wouldn't affect the man, who had such high mental defenses, but Harry felt the man shift in response anyway. Riddle's hand curled around the back of Harry's neck and tugged him closer in hopes of controlling the situation.

Vindictively, Harry pushed their groins together, loving the physical proof that he was affecting Riddle in such a way. The man's hardness was evident, and so greatly appreciated.

Before the Dark Lord could regain his composure, Harry grabbed the man's bottom lip with his teeth and slowly pulled away. His eyes drank in Riddle's slightly dazed expression. However, the daze didn't last long as the man's pupils dilated and an enraged hiss escaped his swollen lips.

He said something in Parseltongue before grabbing for Harry, but the smaller man effectively danced away.

"Is that all you wanted to see me about, Riddle?" he inquired innocently.

He assessed the man from over his shoulder, greatly amused. Riddle was no virgin, clearly, but Harry was willing to bet most of his previous lovers were always compliant and far too intimidated of the Dark Lord's overwhelming aura to give the man a proper snog. Unfortunately for Riddle, that inexperience with a dominant partner had paralyzed him to Harry's ministrations.

Harry suspected Riddle would be prepared next time.

Alas, there couldn't be a next time.

It was a sad delusion if he thought he could be with Riddle physically with no strings attached. But it was never that simple with Riddle. It would be gratifying, that much was evident by their extreme attraction to one another, but Harry imagined Riddle would want _more_ than he was willing to give.

Besides, he didn't want to give into the man like that. It would only serve to inflate his ego.

The Minister moved away from the wall and stalked towards his desk. His aura darkened and he gazed irritably at Harry. "This issue is not over. It _will_ be addressed at a later date."

"What issue, Riddle?" Harry asked. "You've made your point about Macnair and future challenges very clear." They both knew that Riddle was speaking of something else entirely.

"How is your assignment coming along?" The Dark Lord changed the subject entirely, clearly still frustrated. "Forgive me. You must be completely submerged in reminiscing the glory days with your Quidditch friends. What assignment, indeed."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the snide comment. That sounded like something Snape would say. "I have Braun under control." He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled smugly. "Though it pleases me that you've taken notice of my upcoming match. I hope to see you there, Minister. You'd look dashing in red and gold. "

Riddle hardly batted an eyelash as he sat behind his desk. "I must press the subject of Occlumency once again. It is vital you learn it. The Aurors stumbled their way into a lead this morning regarding _Custos_." A dark eyebrow rose. "Apparently _Custos_ is an Empath."

"Is that right?" Harry mused. "It only took them a dozen of victims later to realize this."

"You don't seem bothered."

"Why should I be? I anticipated this."

"They will find a way to take advantage of that fact."

It was Harry's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I don't think they can possibly find what they're looking for, especially when it doesn't even exist in textbooks. Empaths are not as powerful as _Custos_."

Riddle was quick to counter. "Empaths are not as susceptible to emotional attacks like _Custos_. You are unprotected and wide open for an invasion. If they are clever, they will realize that your powerful ability is also a powerful detriment. You cannot control yourself when faced with someone sinisterly unstable. You need to learn Occlumency."

Harry lost his cockiness. "Not with you."

The older man sighed softly. "I have a proposal." Long fingers interlocked on top the desk. "My lessons would not be similar to Severus' lessons. I am a Master Legilimens, which means I have the ability to enter your mind without forcing memories to the forefront. My objective is to give you a stable base in which you would build upon in your own time."

He grimaced, remembering his lessons with Snape in his Fifth Year. "How can it be so different from Snape's lessons? He is a Master Legilimens as well—"

"His objective was to humiliate you. Mine is to teach you."

Harry turned silent at that, watching Riddle through skeptical eyes. "You won't see any of my memories?"

"Not intentionally." Riddle inclined his head at Harry's incredulity. "We will be inside your mind. In an unstable mind, like yours, there will be no proper barriers. There may be memories that we come across that need to be put in their place, so to speak." He blinked languidly. "I don't anticipate needing many lessons to establish a stable base for you."

Riddle was never short on arrogance.

Mulling over the man's words, Harry wondered why Riddle would even go through all _this_ in the first place. What were his motives? If what he said was true, and they wouldn't see much, if any memories, then it wasn't to establish further control over Harry. So why was Riddle extending so many olive branches to get on Harry's good side?

Then Harry remembered Pettigrew and the other members of Riddle's little cult.

Everyone had his or her own hobby. This was Riddle's hobby, his specialty. Turning powerful, albeit distraught and damaged men and women into something more, something better, and in return, he'd gain their complete and everlasting loyalty. It was the strongest sort of loyalty one could establish with others, and it was effective as hell.

Harry snorted.

Yes. He was Riddle's pet project now.

Unfortunately, he had no desire to get better, especially when that _better_ meant he would find himself curled obediently around Riddle's finger. Nevertheless, that didn't mean he couldn't take advantage of Riddle's poison-laced gifts. He just needed to be careful of the hand that fed him.

He needed to learn Occlumency, there was no doubt about that after his slip-up with Auror Grey's brother. He also needed Riddle's resources to find those responsible for his parents' murders. Harry just hoped he wouldn't find himself trapped in Riddle's deliberately placed web.

"Fine."

Riddle smiled thinly, pleased. "Good." He reclined in his seat. "It's pleasing to know we can think like rational adults."

Harry stood straight and observed the politician through critical eyes.

There was something undecidedly unnerving about Tom Riddle, and Harry couldn't put his finger on it. There'd been only fleeting flickers of Riddle's true darkness, but nothing substantial. The man was bloody powerful, he was frighteningly intelligent, and he was terrifyingly brilliant at manipulating.

Despite those attributes, he was a measly politician with a hoard of faithful followers at his disposal.

They called him a Dark Lord, and maybe that was because he was a Lord-level wizard who harnessed the Dark as if it were a mere servant. Nonetheless, it didn't change the fact that Tom Riddle was so _inactive._

And that's what unnerved Harry.

Someone of Riddle's caliber could be so much more, but he wasn't. Being in the Minister position for so long could have warranted policy changes, but society hadn't changed much at all for decades.

_Inactivity._

Yes.

Harry narrowed his eyes, analyzing the man who coldly returned the favor. "Have a good day, Minister Riddle." His eyes flickered over to Merope Gaunt, who'd returned to an inconspicuous frame.

Her mismatched eyes watched him thoughtfully.

Mother issues, indeed.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Brady Lund walked beside Lucius Malfoy with unrestrained dislike.

He knew these corridors quite well; he didn't need the pompous blond wizard to lead him around like a dog. But they were all dogs, weren't they? They established their own hierocracy, but when it came down to it, their master always determined the pecking order. The vindictive man held all their leashes with ridiculous ease.

If someone put a single toe out of line, the man knew about it instantly.

It was a bit impressive, actually. As much as Brady disliked how things turned out regarding his servitude, he always marveled at Tom Riddle's brilliance. Despite being stretched so thin, the Dark Lord had eyes everywhere and he held his followers with an iron fist.

"Can't it wait?" Malfoy inquired. "He's with recruits."

"It can't. He asked me to report to him immediately with news."

_Recruits, eh_? He remembered those glory days, those days he did nothing but obsess over Tom Riddle and strive to impress him. It was the man's gift. His utmost advantage. Twisting men and women until they could think of nothing but him.

The Dark Lord had extraordinary charisma. Brady never knew anyone who possessed even a fraction of Riddle's ability.

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow and entered the Dark Lord's parlor. It was a large room, stocked with many pieces of furniture around the fireplace, books, top shelf liquor, and a relaxing atmosphere. As Brady stumbled in after Malfoy, he saw six figures sitting around Riddle, captivated on the man's every word.

He could feel the _waves_ of magic thrumming hypnotically from the Dark Lord. The magic was inconspicuous, but Brady knew how to look now. He was familiar with the mind-numbing power, the kind of power that lured him into a fascination with such a powerful and influential man.

He once sat where these younger adults sat. Entranced, eager, and especially determined to prove his worth to such a man. He hadn't known at the time what he'd stumble into, that the obsession he placed on the Dark Lord would _never_ be returned, not even in the slightest.

The Dark Lord had ways to portray interest to prospective followers, but Brady knew the man never cared, never returned the same fixation. He simply cultivated it from others.

Lucius cleared his throat, announcing their presence. It was best not to address the man as _My Lord_ in front of possible recruits, Brady knew. He wondered what would happen back then, when he was being recruited, if he'd known people addressed his obsession by "Lord".

Would that have set off warning bells?

Probably not. It would have simply enhanced his entrancement. His excitement.

The Dark Lord looked up, his eyes falling on Brady. Despite himself, his spine stiffened and his palms grew clammy. Even after all this time, even after _knowing_ the man's manipulations, he still thrived to have the man's attention. Just for a moment. Such desire engraved permanently into his very being.

He was pathetic.

Riddle smiled. "Lucius, would you be so kind to show our guests to the dining hall? I will rejoin you in just a moment." He stood, immediately encouraging the star-struck audience to rise with him.

As if waking from a light slumber, the wizards and witches followed a smug-looking Malfoy. Brady happened to catch sight of a few faces, surprised to see a Weasley amongst the group. He recognized the kid as Molly and Arthur's youngest son, though Brady couldn't think of his name.

"Mr. Lund," the Dark Lord greeted pleasantly. "Please, sit."

Brady immediately followed the suggestion, unable to do anything other than the Dark Lord's bidding. He liked knowing what kind of monster the Dark Lord was, he liked cursing the man in his mind, yet he was still loyal to the wizard. He always would be. Moreover, he'd always be envious and jealous of those in the Dark Lord's presence.

Just as all the followers were.

There was an inner-circle, and every man and woman strived to reach that position.

The Dark Lord handed him a tumbler of fine whiskey and Brady took it graciously. "Thank you, My Lord." The tall and aristocratic man sat across from him, watching him closely. It caused Brady's heart to beat profoundly. "I have news."

"Just as I thought you would," the Dark Lord murmured. His crimson eyes lightened. "News of Harry Potter?"

It was subtle, but Brady's jealous mind instantly noticed the uncharacteristic appreciation in the man's tone and eyes at the mention of the Potter kid. Alternatively, perhaps he was too far gone in his enthrallment to think clearly. "Yes. You were right." Brady looked down at his drink and downed half the amber liquid. "There is protection around him."

The Dark Lord remained silent, though his impatience became apparent in the cooling magic.

"I…" Brady hesitated. "Stephen, Rolf, and I split up. They took Potter and I decided to complete your request of finding Remus Lupin. Stephen and Rolf never returned to their posts. When I looked for them, I could see no trace of them whatsoever. I couldn't discern the source of Potter's protection, either."

Crimson eyes turned considering.

"You—er, have you tried determining the source of protection personally, My Lord?"

Losing Stephen and Rolf hadn't been a loss in Brady's book. And clearly not to the Dark Lord either. They'd been low ranking and particularly arrogant.

"I have," the Dark Lord informed. "I've gotten close enough to Potter in a threatening manner; however, I never encountered any protection around the man."

Brady instantly wondered what could have caused the Dark Lord to interact threateningly with Potter, but immediately dismissed it. Now was not the time. "Perhaps, whatever or whoever the boy's protection, they acknowledge you are too big of a threat. They or _it_ wouldn't have wanted to take the risk."

"I am beginning to think it is a _what,_ versus a _whom_." The Dark Lord stood up. "Another source confirmed there is an especially powerful protection around Potter. I had to confirm it myself."

He seemed to be considering aloud, though Brady hoped it remained that way. He didn't want the Dark Lord to send him to test Potter's protection, especially after many failed attempts at catching the source behind it all. Whatever it was, it was effective and bloody daunting.

"And Remus Lupin?" The Dark Lord inquired quietly, a hint of cold amusement. "I don't see him here, nor do I think you stopped by the holding cells downstairs."

This time, Brady finished off his drink, his nerves bundling. "No, My Lord, I did not retrieve him."

"Why, then, Mr. Lund, are you here?" The cloaked figure stood directly before Brady, clear displeasure rolling off the authoritative aura. "You failed discerning the protection around Potter and you have also failed to retrieve Remus Lupin. Yet here you are, in the comforts of my domain, sipping my whiskey."

Fear and desperation washed him cold. He avoided eye contact with the man, desperate to fix this, desperate to regain the man's favor. "Please, My Lord, I found him. I found him, but he's with werewolves."

"Werewolves," was the unimpressed reply.

"Yes, and there are children there…"

Silence met his statement.

Brady blinked in shock when the Dark Lord crouched down in front of him. His flawless features were serene, yet his red eyes were alight with mocking gentleness. A pale hand cupped his knee and Brady lost his breath as the fingers tightened to an almost painful degree.

"I fail to see what stopped you from your assignment," the Dark Lord whispered. Piercing eyes caught and held his stare. "When I give you an assignment, I expect you to succeed no matter what stands in your way. Do you understand me?" At his frenzied nod, the Dark Lord stood up. "Then I believe you will shine wonderfully in your task, Mr. Lund."

A hand petted his hair and Brady's cheeks flushed, ashamed as he delighted in such meaningless and empty praise.

A part of him knew that if he were to die in his task of retrieving Lupin, the Dark Lord would think nothing of his demise. Just like he thought nothing of Stephen and Rolf dying for his cause. Instead, he'd have another poor sod sitting in Brady's place, all the while, feeding more false encouragements.

Despite all this, Brady's loyalty remained unyielding.

It would always remain unyielding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Brady is not a main character. He was used for his perspective. =)


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**16\. Chapter Sixteen**

It was late and Harry wasn't in the mood for Riddle's scheming political maneuvers.

Unfortunately, it was unavoidable.

He'd requested Harry's presence tonight for their first Occlumency lesson. Mulling over the late hour, Harry had taken the initiative to preoccupy himself with hunting beforehand. Using Apparition to cross into the German territory had been a drain on his magic, as the distance had been both long and unfamiliar.

Crossing _back_ into Britain after scoping out Undersecretary Braun had been an even larger burden. It had dulled his senses and darkened his mood considerably.

Acknowledging the pointless encumbrance Apparition would cause on his person, Harry knew he'd have to steal a wand to construct a Portkey between the two countries.

Apparition left behind a faint magical signature, anyway. If he was careful how he eliminated Undersecretary Braun, there would be no correlation between that kill and _Custos'_ kills. Unlike the British Ministry, who had experience with investigating unknown assailants, the German Ministry would be hard pressed to find any sort of lead.

Luckily, despite his magical fatigue, Harry thought the night went well. He'd successfully scoped out his target and learned a piece of the man's routine. However, he'd need to go back tomorrow night and the night after in order to establish a true pattern for Braun.

Tonight, he also learned Riddle had been right.

Braun was tainted, very much so. It was difficult for Harry to sit back patiently and just _watch_ as the politician preyed on young females and males, stroking himself under the table and—

"…coming along?"

Harry paused in the dark corridor, a sneer twisting his lips. He raised his hood to cover his features, irritation blackening his mood further. The Dark Lord clearly had guests. He'd asked Harry to meet at this time, actually five minutes ago, yet his company remained.

Like a shadow, Harry glided inside the room, certainly not deterred by a bunch of highbrow witches and wizards.

The fireplace was bright, bathing the occupants in the room with a golden hue. Unfortunately, their surroundings were dark and they'd have trouble tracking Harry's movements. Even Riddle remained oblivious to his presence for quite some time, though admittedly, _quite some time_ was actually only a few seconds.

The Dark Lord straightened like a giddy schoolgirl who'd just laid eyes on her crush.

Harry bypassed the man and circled around the perimeter of the room, marveling at the _stench_ , the taint. My, my, Riddle knew how to pick them, didn't he? Green eyes assessed the fourteen individuals, wondering just where to rest his eyes.

They were all tainted, even Lucius Malfoy's wife.

They were powerful too, and their sense of self-importance seemed somewhat justifiable as they sat comfortably amongst Riddle's presence.

Somehow, these cult followers were more important than the others, Harry knew. More trusted, more influential. Was this Riddle's selected group of favorites? Was that why the man had scheduled this time to meet Harry, so he could show off _Custos_ to these tainted individuals?

It had to be it.

And it made Harry that more agitated.

His eyes bypassed Barty Crouch Junior and looked at the dark-haired siren sitting comfortably on the ground. His eyes narrowed. She possessed some sort of Occlumency shield that doused most of her taint, but Harry just _knew_ she was the worse amongst the group.

Her wild mane of dark curls and her suggestive body language easily identified her as Bellatrix Lestrange née Black. She was Sirius' cousin, wife to Rodolphus, and one crazy _bitch_.

Harry's fingers curled and an unexplained hatred coiled in his stomach.

Bellatrix was a wanted criminal for a string of murders and disappearances. The Ministry could never find her, as she was just as elusive as _Custos_ , if not more so with a powerful Dark Lord shielding her from the law. It reminded Harry why he hunted people like her in the first place.

They were above the law, or, at least they thought they were. What was worse was that they _delighted_ in kills and they thrived off them. Have mercy on them if Harry determined it was their time to atone for their crimes.

Feeling rather vindictive, Harry stepped out in front of them all, standing tall with his back to the fireplace. Ignoring the jolts of surprise from the gathered wizards, his eyes remained on Bellatrix. The fire cast his person in complete shadow, further protecting his features from their prying eyes.

Bellatrix stiffened against her husband's legs, her eyes taking in his combat boots, his leather gloves, and the knee-length hooded cloak. Her eyes turned murderous as she quickly connected the dots.

"You killed Estella," she whispered in loathing.

Gone was her seductress ploy, and in its place was a murderous wench.

Harry's lips upturned, torn between amusement and disgust. "Don't forget to add Macnair to that list," he taunted quietly.

She had a hot temper, he realized a moment later. So hot, he was almost too slow to react when she whipped out her wand and pointed it at him. Her lips pursed with a curse, but Harry was faster. He threw his magical dagger in her direction, the blade flying through the air with deadly accuracy.

Unfortunately, it didn't cut the wand in half, but it did knock it out of her hand. The blade then embedded near Barty Crouch's head in the couch cushion. The man released a high-pitched scream and jumped up, looking far more excited than frightened.

Harry jumped and executed a roundhouse kick in Bellatrix's unsuspecting face. The balls of his feet hardly touched the ground before he grabbed her stumbling form and maneuvered it over to the fireplace. He crouched next to her, fisting a handful of her hair and holding her face above the flames.

"Look how pathetic and useless you are without your stick, eh?"

"But we aren't," one of the Lestrange brothers said, pointing his wand at Harry. "Release her!" A few others stood alongside him, their own wands leveled on Harry's crouched figure.

"Careful," Harry warned spitefully. "Her eyebrows will grow back quickly, but re-growing skin won't be as painless." He pushed her closer to the flames and she hissed, refusing to cry out as the flames licked and began to melt the outmost layer of exposed flesh.

The smell of burning hair wafted across the room and Harry chuckled pleasantly.

Suddenly, the fire extinguished and the lights ignited across the room.

"Lower your wands." A cold voice ordered from behind the group of wizards. " _Now_."

Without any sort of hesitation, the group of wizards lowered their wands and stepped aside. Across the room, Riddle finally stood from his chair, his expression blasé and eerily void of emotion. He looked at Bellatrix and Harry, raising an eyebrow at the latter's insistence of establishing control.

"If you would kindly release Bellatrix, I would be most obliged." It was a polite request, though everyone knew it to be sarcastic and contemptuous. The Dark Lord did not _ask_ nicely, after all.

His word was absolute.

Harry tightened his hold, refusing to let her go as dark emotions bubbled to the surface. Helpless emotions. Consuming emotions. He didn't understand Riddle's insistence to introduce him to this ridiculous crowd. Did the Dark Lord want them to know he had _Custos_ under his thumb? That he'd managed to put a collar around the wayward serial killer and possess him?

No matter the reason, Harry found himself furious and vulnerable.

It was Riddle's little game, his display of ownership.

Harry squinted at the man before turning back to Bellatrix. Before anyone could properly react, he extended his index finger and punched her temple. She immediately slouched, unconscious into the burning embers.

They raced towards her, and in the midst of chaos, Harry slipped away, grabbing his dagger and sneaking out the room. Screw Riddle. It had been a mistake to initiate the dance in the first place. He didn't care about the blackmail anymore. He didn't care about catching those responsible for his parents' murders.

He had enough information to pick up himself, anyway.

As he flew through the dark corridors, the walls seemed to shift and the doors played guessing games with him.

He snarled, opening a door he _knew_ led to the main lobby, but he found himself in another empty corridor. The doors closed behind him and the hallway turned on its axis. Harry found himself standing on the ceiling and looking up at the floor. Riddle's magic leaked around the hallways, teasing Harry, _mocking_ him, licking him, claiming him...

He growled fiercely, his temper rising and his control slipping.

He sprinted to the end of the hallway, using his speed and his reflexes to dive through another door. Riddle might have been preventing him from leaving with tricks and illusions, but Harry knew he would find an exit. It may take him longer, but Riddle couldn't keep up this game forever.

He sprang through another door, falling to the ground when the ceiling became the ceiling once more. The door slammed shut behind him and he found himself in a grey, featureless room rather than a hallway.

Across from him, Riddle stood, watching him coolly.

Harry flipped the dagger in his palm and raced towards the Dark Lord, eager to sate _this_ particular desire.

Riddle lifted an arm and wandlessly froze Harry midair. The magic was like an invisible wall, slowing him to a complete stop. He couldn't move his limbs. He couldn't even _breathe_ past the block of magic. The detainment caused his fury to spike and his magic to follow suit.

Surprisingly enough, his weary magic cracked the foundations of Riddle's block.

Crimson eyes widened a fraction as Harry tore through his magic. Without defending himself again, Riddle straightened and remained oddly still as Harry pounced. He hated that the man refused to defend himself. Was this some kind of wild animal routine? Play submissive until the uncontrollable beast calmed down?

He landed on Riddle, using his knee to force the man on his back.

Regrettably, the man never intended to play submissive. As soon as Harry landed, the Dark Lord's magic abruptly yanked the dagger from Harry's gloved hands and he pushed at his lithe figure, sending him high into the air. In a whirlwind, Harry found himself pinned against the ceiling, unable to move once again.

Unfortunately, his magic was too exhausted and he could not fight against it.

"Calm down," Riddle instructed evenly. Around him, his magic crackled and heightened. It became evident that Riddle was no longer appeasing Harry, but rather trying to gain control of the situation. "You are completely out of control."

"Go to hell, Riddle," Harry informed, seeing red. "This is over."

"If _it's_ over, then I should just kill you now, no?"

Harry scoffed and rolled his neck out of habit. Out of necessity. "You throw that threat around as if it means something. Unlike you, I'd gladly welcome death."

Riddle stood up from the floor and calmly brushed his robes. Once he regained his dignity, he looked up at Harry. "I am not through with you yet." That simple statement held a surprising amount of possessiveness. "Are you ready to discuss this like an adult, _child_? I can keep you up there if you wish."

It was amusing, really. Riddle was prevailing in the magical sense, yet he knew if Harry was physically close enough, the younger wizard could tilt the playing field to his favor. Harry knew how to cut off a wizard's wandless magic and he knew how to disarm a wizard when they relied too heavily on their wand.

It was clear Riddle wanted to keep him as far away as possible in order to control the situation.

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to regain his cool.

Yes, he overreacted. Yes, he let his anger consume him. Nevertheless, that didn't stop his insult when it came to Riddle's actions tonight. "You wanted to stake your claim in front of all those _animals_ ," he informed quietly. "I will never stand for that, Riddle. I have no interest playing the role of your tamed pet."

"And that was not my intentions."

Green eyes opened and levelled him with an apathetic look. "I find that doubtful."

Expression blasé, Riddle calmly turned his back on Harry and released him from the ceiling. As the younger wizard landed in a crouch, he watched as the sterile, ambiguous room slowly took shape. Riddle's magic, presently in the form of fog, dissolved the grey walls, revealing a familiar fireplace and leather couches.

Harry stiffened when he realized they were in the same room he'd escaped from earlier, sans the group of wizards.

The Dark Lord's magic was scarily impressive _._

He hated admitting it, even to himself, but it was indisputable. The man had created illusions this whole time, conjuring a degrading mouse maze for Harry to run through. He'd easily manipulated his surroundings as if it were child's play.

Such magic would be useful for _Custos'_ victims _,_ though Harry knew he'd never be able to replicate such power.

It was better not to dwell over something he could never obtain.

"I wanted to introduce you to my inner-circle," Riddle continued arrogantly, not a bloody care in the world. "They know your identity and they know you are untouchable." At Harry's look, Riddle expanded. "They are under a vow of secrecy. Your identity is safe for ever long I wish it."

"And what kind of spell ensures such confidentiality?"

"A mark," he replied. "Engrained on their very core."

Harry's eyes turned half-lidded. So they'd known who he was when he stepped before them. They'd known he was _untouchable,_ which is why they hadn't reacted right away when he'd held Bellatrix over the fire. Bellatrix clearly thought herself above her Lord's order, which is why she'd been prepared to curse him for Zabini's death.

Still…

"You're easing me into your _lifestyle,_ Riddle, and I don't appreciate the direction." Harry motioned toward the couches where the fourteen wizards and witches assembled earlier. "I am not your follower, nor will I ever be."

The older man slowly eased himself into one of the gestured loveseats. He kept his eyes levelled on Harry as he crossed his legs and rested his chin against a contemplating hand. His posture was frustratingly calm and egotistical, a far cry from Harry's earlier bout of irritability.

"You've made that clear on several occasions, Harry." He smiled thinly, not at all amused. "Contrary to what you believe, I don't want you to be one of _them_."

The intensity in which Riddle stared at him was unsettling, though Harry easily withstood the observance. "Then the reason behind the meet and greet?" he pressed.

Riddle removed the hand from his chin and waved it lazily. "You are untouchable to them, and in turn, _they_ are untouchable to _you_. All of them." He leaned forward suddenly, his eyes bright. "I understand you are not controlled, but this is something I am asking of you, not demanding."

Well this was new, wasn't it?

It seemed like their past encounters were trials for Riddle, trials where he carefully analyzed Harry's character. He likely discovered that having such a closed, iron fist seemed to trigger the same reaction in Harry. Therefore, Riddle had concluded that if he wanted something from the younger man, he'd have to ask pleasantly.

Harry was almost tempted to tell the man to beg for such a… "Ridiculous request," he hissed. "They, like Macnair, are guilty of crimes they should have been prosecuted for. You're housing criminals, Riddle—"

"Criminals like you?" the Dark Lord countered silkily. "Though you refuse to accept or admit it, Harry, I am protecting you from the Aurors. Despite what the public believes, despite what _you_ believe, you're killing men and women. In fact, I'd even wager that your crimes are far more gruesome than the crimes my followers have committed."

"You don't protect me from the Aurors, _my Lord_ , I protect myself. As far as my motives go, I save people," Harry retorted dangerously. "What I do is justifiable. What your cult members do is out of boredom."

The older man chuckled. "I have no desire to get in this age-old argument with you tonight." He sat back once again. "I am asking you not to target my inner-circle. Can I have your word?"

He truly pondered over Riddle's actions. It was hard to imagine the man _caring_ for these men and women, but the Dark Lord claimed they were members of his inner-circle. Harry imagined they were useful to him, more useful than the other members of his 'cult'.

Considering Riddle's inactivity, Harry wondered just what purpose they served.

"Bellatrix—"

"Especially her."

Harry raised an eyebrow and a depraved grin crossed his features, bathing him in an unholy light. "Seems awfully parallel with my situation with Ginny Weasley, doesn't it? Yet you overstepped _your_ boundaries and forced her to accept a move to Portugal."

Hardly deterred at the taunt, Riddle reclined further and settled an arm across the top of the loveseat. "Only, unlike you and your ginger-haired pet, I have no emotional or physical attachments to Bella." His eyes gleamed dangerously. "My attentions are elsewhere for that."

His crimson eyes swept the length of Harry. Between his intense scrutiny, and his velvety-smooth tone, anyone would find themselves weak-kneed and sweating profusely.

Only, Harry smiled toothily and sauntered closer to Riddle. He stopped at the man's parted knees and looked down at the Dark Lord, meeting his stare and holding it. Reaching up, he lowered his hood, considering the situation.

Riddle still wanted an answer, and Harry pondered on the request.

He could heel, only because Riddle presented him with a gift tonight. If anything went sour between them, Harry had every face of Riddle's _inner-circle_ entrenched in his mind. They might not be the Dark Lord's Achilles' heel, but killing them off would create a major problem for the man.

It was a weakness, and Harry intended to exploit it if need be.

"You're lucky she has Occlumency shielding most of her taint," Harry answered darkly. "I'll resist the urge to hunt them, Riddle. For now." He cocked an eyebrow down at the inexpressive wizard. "Unless, of course, they do something to set me off."

"Which, with your unstable mind, could be _anything_." Riddle's arm dropped from the top of the sofa and touched the cushion next to him. "Sit. We will start our Occlumency lesson. You are in desperate need of some structure."

Harry stared at the offered spot, a spot that would put him close to the Dark Lord. He was unfamiliar with such a setting. This situation would put Riddle as the instructor and Harry the student. Their interactions would not be of constant challenges, but a neutral desire to learn and teach.

Dare he say it? It would be almost _degrading_.

He grimaced.

He sat down next to Riddle, reining in his natural tendencies of predatory defense.

The Dark Lord wasted no time to begin. "When I perform Legilimency, we will enter the heart of your mind. This area is the most vulnerable part of your mind. A skilled Occlumens will have barriers to prevent anyone from entering this area. If an intruder—a Legilimens— were to enter, they could destroy the mind."

"You're going to teach me to construct barriers to prevent this from happening?"

Riddle inclined his head. "Not so much to defend yourself against a mental attack, but to keep your memories and emotions in check. I want to teach you to shield yourself from the individuals who are _tainted_. Stabilizing your mind will, in turn, stabilize you."

"I'm stabilized just fine," Harry responded stiffly.

Crimson eyes stared unblinkingly at him. "You are not." A lip quirked at Harry's obstinate expression, though he voiced no other comments on the subject. "Are you ready to begin?"

Harry studied the aristocratic wizard opposite of him. The man was too calm, too cool, as if he were veiling his true excitement over the prospect of entering Harry's mind. "This heart…" he started. "What does it look like?"

"It varies with every mind." Riddle seemed amused at Harry's hedging. "It takes the form of either a person, place, or specific memory. Somewhere, someone, or something that represents a safe haven for you. You will feel secure here. Every mind, even an untrained mind, will have some form of refuge as the central system."

His pulse thumped wildly at the implications and he stood up suddenly. "You've been in my mind before, when Snape damaged it. What did you see as my safe haven?"

Though he veiled it well, Riddle appeared surprised at the sudden defensiveness coming from Harry. "I did not enter the heart of your mind at that time. I simply healed the damage Severus inflicted."

Harry threw the wizard a cold look and circled behind the loveseat.

He thought immediately of his bedroom. The stark whiteness, the calm, and the stability. That had to be the heart of his mind. He didn't want Riddle to see that. He didn't want the Dark Lord privy to what kind of comfort Harry surrounded himself with to feel at ease.

"Sit," the Dark Lord demanded, his tone turning impatient. "The heart of the mind is established in adolescence. I hardly believe you had anything incriminating to see before puberty."

That caught Harry's attention. "Before puberty?"

"The mind is still developing when you're a child. You are still young during its developmental stages, thus the heart of your mind should be something from your childhood. It rarely changes shape, though it may grow different layers."

"Rarely changes shape," Harry repeated, cynical.

Riddle seemed vexed and his magic piqued. " _Sit_."

Harry inhaled and sat on the coffee table opposite of Riddle. His fingers twitched and he resisted the urge to roll his neck. He didn't like this. He never realized how vulnerable this would make him. The last thing he wanted was to lose his footing opposite of Tom Riddle.

Perhaps the best thing to do was act as if nothing bothered him. So what if Riddle saw a white room? As long as Harry didn't make a big deal out of it, Riddle had no ammunition to hold against him.

The Dark Lord turned to face Harry as the younger wizard perched at the end of the coffee table. His eyes sharpened, becoming almost hypnotic. "Keep eye contact, Harry, while I penetrate you very deeply," he instructed huskily.

The innuendo was not lost on Harry. Despite the situation, he grinned warily. "You may be the penetrator for the mind, Riddle, but when it comes to penetrating the body, that role would be mine alone."

"We shall see," Riddle murmured, though a pleased smile graced his lips. "Focus on me."

Harry wanted to ask why the man wasn't shouting out, " _Legilimency!"_ and waving his wand threateningly. But the Dark Lord already made it clear that these lessons would not replicate Snape's lessons from Fifth Year. He was almost giddy learning from a true Master Legilimens, despite that Legilimens being none other than Tom Riddle.

Slowly, the room started to fall away and all Harry could see was Riddle.

Soon, even Riddle's crimson stare fell away.

Everything grew dark, foggy, until light began to shine through the darkness. However, the light shining through was golden in shade, not white. Curiously, he watched as the golden light slowly took form and sharpened into brighter colors. Figures and forms came into fruition and Harry found himself standing somewhere familiar.

"Hogwarts," he stated numbly.

Next to him, Riddle's face clouded into something unfamiliar, and Harry couldn't quite pinpoint the emotion. "The Great Hall," the Dark Lord specified. "Under the watchful eyes of Albus Dumbledore, I see."

Harry turned.

Indeed, Albus Dumbledore was present, along with a table full of staff. Students occupied the entire hall, their conversations nothing but a comfortable-sounding buzz. He recognized most of them, even Ron and Hermione.

This was the heart of his mind, then.

It didn't surprise Harry, now that he knew what form it took. As a child, he'd never felt safer than he did at Hogwarts. Even now, there was something oddly… sentimental about the Great Hall. The company, the candlelight, the enchanted ceilings, the rich food, and the all-powerful Albus Dumbledore.

It brought back memories of a time when Harry had been innocent, carefree, and especially naïve.

He turned back to look at Riddle. "How do I make my mind stronger, then?" Though he was relieved the heart of his mind did not turn out to be his white bedroom, he still didn't like Riddle in his head.

The tall, dark figure turned his heel and glided toward the set of closed, double doors. "It starts with outside these doors, of course." He cast one last look around the hall. "You won't find anything to strengthen in here. This is the place you protect with carefully constructed barriers."

It suddenly dawned on Harry how much of a threat Tom Riddle posed.

The man was a Legilimens and he'd entered the heart of Harry's mind in mere seconds. This was the place he could destroy, and in turn, tear apart Harry's mind. He could do this to anyone and they'd be powerless to stop him.

Unnerving as it was, Harry doubted Riddle would take enjoyment out of such a tactic. The man thrived off suffering and games. Tearing apart someone's mind would hold little pleasure.

"Out there will be more of a challenge." Riddle smiled cruelly. "It will be… unstable."

He pushed open the doors leading to the dark corridors. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, the double doors closed behind them, cloaking them in darkness. The glimpses Harry managed to catch proved that his surroundings weren't very… detailed. Walls were blurry, floor titles were missing, and deep blackness swallowed up corners.

A familiar, high-pitched scream echoed eerily through the castle and the cold was nearly unbearable.

Harry grimaced. "Charming."

It was a far cry from the warm environment inside the Great Hall, and yet, Harry wasn't daunted. He'd much rather dwell out here, in the reality of life, of pain, than a façade of false promises.

"Very charming," Riddle consented, watching a pale figure rush before their eyes before disappearing around the corner. "You'll find fragments of memories here, unrestrained. In this particular setting, you will need to face wayward memories and put them behind doors."

"I have to sweep this whole castle?"

"That is the idea." His pale features turned to observe Harry. "Your job is not only to put memories in their rightful place, but to reinforce the mind. Specifically, it is to reimagine the halls of Hogwarts in your image. Create space where there is gaping holes. Imagine twisting corridors and moving staircases. The possibilities are endless with the mind. All you have to do is imagine and protect what's in there."

Harry glanced back at the closed Great Hall.

He then turned to look at the endless abyss of darkness and imagined a simple sconce. He squinted, visualizing. When nothing happened, he pursed his lips and tried harder.

He'd refuse to ask Riddle for help on this.

He imagined the sconce, a warm, dim flame propped against the stone wall. The light would illuminate their immediate surroundings, yet the flame wouldn't be nearly enough to brighten the whole corridor. Underneath the torch, the cobblestone flooring would reflect the flame, etching shadows deep into each individual stone.

Suddenly, a torch flickered and appeared on the wall, exactly how he'd imagined. Green eyes stared at the sconce, satisfied, but suddenly exhausted.

"You'll experience fatigue during the initial stages of reconstruction," came Riddle's less-than welcome observation. "Your mind is not accustomed to labor. The longer you train it, the easier things will become."

"I'm not tired," Harry informed warningly.

"Of course not, child."

Instead of engaging the man in an argument, Harry stepped further down the corridor, imaging another torch next to the first. It still took quite a bit of effort, but it eventually came into existence. This was ridiculous. It would take forever to sweep the whole castle and safeguard his mind.

As he stepped further down the dark corridor, with the Dark Lord silently at his side, Harry noticed another side corridor. He peered down the long stretch, stiffening when the lit torches shed dim lighting across the memory. Shards of glass were on the floor, and up ahead, a silhouette cried out hoarsely and collapsed to the ground.

Laughter.

Cackling and unrestrained glee.

Harry inhaled deeply and waved his hands, conjuring up a door. It slammed shut on the memory and Harry relaxed.

"That is not the proper way to control a wayward memory," Riddle criticized. "It is not detained, therefore, it will continue to grow and strengthen the longer you avoid it."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You told me to put memories behind closed doors." He turned back to the solid door, contemplating about putting a lock on it. "That's what I did."

Riddle reached out and placed a long, pale hand against the door. He leaned down, closer to Harry, and smiled unkindly. "Squeezing your eyes shut and hoping to quickly conjure a door does not mean you're controlling the memories. They are controlling you. It will sense the power it wields over you and begin to fester."

The hand dropped.

" _Face it."_

"Not with you," Harry informed coolly.

The Dark Lord suddenly cloaked himself with menacing shadows. "Torture is meant to chip away your pride and render you feeble and powerless." His red eyes looked at Harry, somehow managing to demean him. "Right now, you are proving to me that you still dwell in their captivity. You haven't escaped yet, have you, Harry?"

Harry's jaw clenched at the words and his hands curled into fists. "They hold no sway over me."

Riddle simply inclined his head and stepped away from the door. ' _Prove it',_ his actions seemed to say.

As Harry curled his hand around the door handle, he noticed the coldness. It was such an intimate memory, a psychological mind fuck. He hated to admit it, but Riddle was right. These memories, mostly all the memories during his days of torture, were always pushed to the back of his mind. Harry had never faced them again, never relived them.

He threw open the door to the memory and found himself being sucked inside.

He appeared in the all-too familiar room. If Riddle wasn't a silent companion at his side, he'd back away and lose himself. But he couldn't do that. Not in front of the Dark Lord. He'd have to face this with his eyes wide open. He needed to accept this memory for what it was; otherwise, Riddle would see him differently.

Weak. Pathetic.

_Harry leaned against the corner of the cold and barren room. Nothing but a chair sat inside the room and an empty bowl meant for water. His clothes were torn, his skin bloodied, his feet bare, and his lips cracked._

_He felt nothing but hunger and thirst, desperation and helplessness._

_In the next room, he heard his mother suffering. She was crying and he rejoiced hearing it, simply because her dead silence was so much worse. He struggled to keep his head up, and eyes open, but he succumbed to utter exhaustion. He never slept. They never let him. As soon as he closed his eyes to escape the madness, the door slammed open._

_A man entered._

_Like the lot of them, he glamoured his features into an indecipherable blur. Harry stared at the man, knowing by now that he'd never see the true face of his attackers. They were cowards. They were cold-blooded tormentors._

_The man strolled in, chuckling as Harry stiffened and pressed himself further against the wall. "I think we're through with you."_

_Unfocused green eyes widened. Surely, that didn't mean—_

" _Get up!" A large hand reached for him, grabbing him roughly around the bicep. Without extracting much effort, he hoisted the lithe male off the floor and dragged him towards the entrance of the room. "Your mother isn't telling us anything. Either she doesn't know anything, or she truly wants to see her family die." He paused. "We thought we'd mix things up a bit."_

_He released Harry and nudged him out the door. Unsteady at first, Harry caught himself against the door frame. The smell of fresh air assaulted his nostrils. Taking a risk, he peeked his head around the corner, staring uncomprehendingly at the open door at the end of the corridor._

_Freedom? Sunlight?_

_Freedom! Oh Merlin, freedom!_

" _If you can make the trek, kid, you get to leave." A chuckle sounded behind him._

_At first, the man's words didn't make much sense. If he could make the trek? He hadn't walked in days, and he was sure a few things were sprained or broken, but if it meant freedom, Harry was willing to push past such vulnerabilities. However, as the sunlight winked inside the dark corridor, he registered the thick layer of broken glass on the floor._

_Some pieces were small, others were large and curved._

_Another laugh sounded behind him before a shoe shoved his back. Harry floundered before falling into the pathway of glass. An agonized scream escaped his mouth as pieces of glass pierced his body. He scrambled fretfully amongst the sea of broken shards, flinging his arms crazily in front of him in order to clear away a relatively safe area for him to rest._

_They were laughing. More tormentors arrived to watch the debacle._

_Blood was a slow, but constant trickle as it seeped around the glass lodged in his skin. Harry, wearing long sleeves, swatted his arms in front of him and created an easier path to travel. In order to muffle his screams, he bit his lip and pushed himself faster._

_The laughter died down as Harry swatted the glass away and crawled like a desperate man to the open door. He saw outside! He_ felt _the warmth of the sun on his face! He could hear the birds, chirping along as if things were all right in the world. The sky was blue. The leaves were green. His tongue tasted freedom as he scrambled desperately towards the open door._

_Tears of desperation and relief clouded his vision._

_As soon as he got within reaching distance, however, the door slammed closed, denying him the freedom he rightfully deserved._

_He stared at the closed door, sitting back amongst the glass. He should have known. He shouldn't have given into false hope. He was going to die here. There was no other way around that._

_Something shuttered in his eyes as the laughter began again amongst the men. Something broke. Something shattered._

" _I did mention there was a time limit, didn't I? You just missed it. Bad break, kid."_

_Harry turned as the man approached. As soon as he was within distance, Harry channeled his rage and absolute_ hate _in the man's direction. Surprisingly enough, the man faltered, as if hit with a physical barrier. Harry frowned, taken aback, before suddenly realizing he had somehow caused it._

_He had done this!_

_Quickly, he fed the man more turbulent emotions, wanting to see him on his knees. And as soon as those knees hit the glass-littered ground, Harry lunged, grabbing a large piece of broken glass and diving for the face. He barely had the opportunity to slice and shred the unrecognizable face before the others took action and quickly Stunned him._

The memory dissolved and Hogwarts' corridors reappeared. The glass incident was the event that had spurred the darkest days of hell with his parents. After finding out about his Empath ability, their tormentors had used it to their advantage. It was when the rape of his mother started, when the more psychological games began.

"I watched it in its entirety," Harry murmured, as if stating the obvious would reinforce his accomplishment. He felt numb, empty. "And yet, I still feel the burning _need_ to search out every single one of these men responsible and skin them alive."

"I would be particularly upset if you thought otherwise," Riddle agreed emotionlessly. His expression was just as blasé as Harry's was, if not more so. His eyes took in the glass still littering the ground. "We will find them."

He still felt the hate, the absolute rage over what had happened, and yet, Harry felt somewhat lighter. This particular memory had been especially painful at the time; however, watching it again hadn't been nearly as agonizing as he'd thought.

Was it because of Riddle's presence? Was it because he was stronger now? He didn't know the reason, and he didn't particularly care, but he noticed it was no longer such a terrifying and unapproachable memory.

"How do I put the memory away?"

"You've already conquered it. Now you must imagine it tucked away in a secured room."

Harry considered the broken glass and the silhouette of his memory-self. He did not close it behind a door, simply because it was currently residing in a corridor. It needed to be in a room, preferably with a padded lock. And just like that, the glass disappeared and a door to Harry's left slammed closed.

He was exhausted, but he remained standing tall.

A hand landed on his shoulder. "Perhaps it's time to call it a night."

Without so much as a warning, the eerie walls of Hogwarts fell away and Harry found himself back in Riddle' manor. He leaped up from the coffee table and paced to the fireplace. He was out of his element. Riddle overseeing things in his mind had been a mistake.

"Thank you," Harry bit out, addressing the man at his back. "I think I understand the gist of reinforcing my mind. I can take things from here, yes?"

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment. "It will take time for you to learn how to enter your mind without the assistance of a Legilimens, but you'll accomplish it. Meditate and clear your mind." He paused. "I may request a few lessons in which I evaluate your progress, but yes, you can 'take things from here'."

And just like that, things were back to normal.

Harry exhaled and turned to face Riddle. Despite his reservations about Riddle in his mind, Harry wondered what he would have done if the Dark Lord _hadn't_ been there. Would he have watched the memory? He doubted it. He'd put it aside, seeing it as something dubious.

Just like his acquaintanceship with Riddle, having the man in his mind brought with it both pros and cons.

He turned and crossed the room. "Goodnight, Riddle."

"I don't want you hunting Braun alone."

Harry was nearly to the door when Riddle's words stopped him cold. He turned and looked at the man. "We've been through this. Your words are insulting." He narrowed his eyes. "What spurred this all of a sudden? My memory—?"

"A memory is a fragment of the past, it does not change who you are now. It's deplorable you think my perceptions would change due to a _memory._ " Riddle stood up, his tall frame unfolding from the couch. "I don't want you hunting Braun alone," he repeated. "I have my reasons."

Lashes fluttered as Harry looked down. "Fine."

Without another word, he escaped the man's stifling presence. Fatigue caused his limbs to drag and his posture to suffer. He didn't have enough energy to spar with the Dark Lord anymore tonight. He'd let Riddle win tonight. He consented to the man's orders.

Come tomorrow, however, he'd be hunting Braun alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: Why isn't Harry compelled to attack because of Riddle's 'taint' and 'darkness'? 
> 
> I've had this question many times, so I thought I should address it for all of you to read. Harry's Empathy does not penetrate through an Occlumency barrier. Snape, Dumbledore, and Riddle were/are all 'voids' to Harry. He cannot sense their emotions or their taint because they have such strong mental defenses. Like Bellatrix in this chapter, he sensed a semi-strong Occlumency shield that disguised most of her taint.
> 
> Hopefully that answers it!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for those of you who took the time to review last chapter. As always, it means a lot to me.
> 
> Ron: In Canon, Ron is loyal to a fault. Nevertheless, you need to remember that the Golden Trio went through /so/ much together. In this Fan Fic, however, they didn't have those trials. I see Ron as loyal, but also ambitious, jealous, and attention-starved. He is exactly the kind of character who would fall for Riddle's manipulation. At least initially. But 'initially' is all Riddle needs.
> 
> Warnings: Grammar errors/typos

 

**17\. Chapter Seventeen**

Life for Ron couldn't have been better.

He was the first Auror in the family since the Prewett brothers. It was a position that would pay well within a few years and he would receive respected acknowledgement from the public. This year, all the members of his family took notice of him becoming his own man, and even Hermione and Harry had been supportive and delighted.

Something finally set him apart from all the others. He was proud of himself.

In Hogwarts, he'd always struggled to stay afloat in classes, and he had the feeling Harry floated alongside him intentionally. They had Hermione for help if they needed it; otherwise, they were busy with girls, Quidditch, and pranking slimy Slytherins. When Fifth Year ended, however, Hermione snapped him back to reality, warning him that he needed to try harder if he wanted acceptance into the Auror program.

Dumbledore and McGonagall made a special exception for Ron when he didn't get a high enough mark on his potion's OWL. Moreover, he'd studied his bloody arse off just to get enough NEWTs.

Connections…

Ron realized that connections really were vital in the real world. Merlin, if it wasn't for Minister Riddle…

"How is life as an Auror treating you?"

He looked up from the game of chess, surveying the older wizard across from him. The tips of his ears turned warm when he noticed the man's intense stare already levelled on his own. There was something unusually charming about Riddle, and Ron couldn't put his finger on it. The Minister was a lot like Dumbledore, only more… sophisticated.

"It's… not what I expected," Ron replied, but hastily corrected himself. "I mean, I just wanted to thank you—"

The Minister lifted a hand to halt Ron's stumbling appreciation. "You've already expressed your gratitude, Mr. Weasley. Advancing your career was the least I could do." Riddle lowered his hand and smiled pleasantly. "When I see raw talent in my Ministry, I must make sure it _flourishes_."

At the compliment, something warm ignited within Ron's chest and he cleared his throat. No one had ever seen potential in him. No one had ever commented or acknowledged it. With Minister Riddle, Ron felt singled out in a good way. Sure, others had praised him when he played Keeper for the Gryffindor team, but this was different.

"What do you mean life as an Auror is not what you expected?" Riddle pressed, addressing their earlier topic. He moved his bishop across the board. "Is Auror Shacklebolt not treating you fairly? I can speak to him if you wish."

Ron flushed hotly at the suggestion. "No- no, it's just that I'm assigned menial tasks. It makes sense, really, because I'm so new. I think Auror Shacklebolt just wants to break me into the routine. Get me familiar with the taskforce and the regulations."

He shrugged, surveying the chessboard to avoid Riddle's scrutiny. It flustered him when the Minister watched him, but it didn't fluster him in a bad way. It wasn't as if Ron was a bloody ponce, but he couldn't deny the high it gave him when he had Riddle's undivided attention.

"Well, if you should ever change your mind, come see me straight away and I will speak to Kingsley on your behalf."

Ron looked up from the chess pieces, quickly glancing at Riddle before looking back down at the board. Growing up in poverty made Ron accept that things didn't come easily. He needed to fight tooth and nail to get what he wanted. Only, in Riddle's presence, there was a… an unfamiliar power that rested at the tips of Ron's fingers.

The power belonged to Riddle alone, but when Ron was in his proximity, in his good graces, he felt as if he could wield it for himself. Truly, if he wanted something, all he needed to do was ask the Minister and it was done.

That power was truly amazing. Bloody brilliant, really. It was unlike anything Ron had possessed before.

"Er, thanks," he responded lamely. "It's nice to play someone in chess who offers a challenge." He moved a pawn. "Harry tries, but he's pants at it."

"Pants at it?" Riddle repeated the phrase slowly, as if he couldn't quite comprehend its meaning.

Ron flushed. "He's rubbish."

"Is that right?" the Minister mused, disinterested.

He looked up at the man who didn't seem at all interested to talk about Harry. Ron smiled thinly and looked back down. That was another thing he liked about Riddle. The Minister's eye contact was unwavering when they discussed Ron or things troubling Ron, but with anything else, _anyone_ else, the man seemed hardly interested.

It was if the man were truly interested in him alone.

"Harry is more of an athlete, more interested in action than patience." Ron bit his bottom lip as he watched Riddle make his next move.

"He prefers adrenaline," Riddle assumed.

"Yes."

Ron pursed his lips as Riddle made a surprising move on the board. Bullocks. He hadn't seen that coming. Across from him, Riddle leaned back, a soft smile playing across his lips as he considered Ron.

"I think…" Riddle started, "being a tactician is especially useful. You have the makings of being an ingenious strategist, Mr. Weasley. In fact, you remind me of your grandmother, Cedrella Black, and her father, Arcturus Black II."

His eyes widened at the mention of his relatives. _Those_ specific relatives. "I- I- you think so?"

Minister Riddle suddenly leaned forward, concern in his eyes. "Whatever is the matter, Mr. Weasley?" His expression morphed into one of understanding. "I see. Your family doesn't speak about your Black ancestors. It's understandable, of course. Pity, though, considering they were very powerful individuals."

Ron watched as Riddle settled back, his posture assuming no more talk on Cedrella and Arcturus Black.

Curiosity persisted however, and Ron wondered how much Riddle knew. His parents never spoke much about Cedrella and Arcturus. Even though Cedrella betrayed the Black family by marrying into the Weasley family, she still had habits, dark habits that Molly and Arthur hadn't approved of.

"They were dark, weren't they?" Ron inquired.

Riddles' gaze found his. "They were very dark," he confirmed, seemingly taking pleasure in Ron's flinch. "They believed that wizards and witches should have a right to practice Dark or Light Magic. Although, Cedrella supported a specific belief that wizards shouldn't have to pick one or the other."

Ron frowned. "But Dark Magic is bad."

The smile Riddle flashed was entirely patronizing. "Many believe that, Mr. Weasley, but I must disagree with such a primitive outlook." He touched the pawn he'd taken from Ron early in the game. "There are several curses that originated from Dark Magic that are unforgivable, yes. However, a simple Severing Hex is Light Magic, no? You can slit someone's throat with a Severing Hex."

Ron swallowed.

"It's the wizard's intentions that makes him _dark_ or _light_. Bias should not be put on magic, but on the individual." Riddle inclined his head. "There are fascinating spells and rituals that are considered Dark in nature, but they are incredibly powerful and they can make the castor fiercely unstoppable. Such magic is simply flawless in its beauty."

Ron held on to Riddle's every word, his eyes becoming unfocused. His head felt cloudy, blurry. He imagined learning curses many wizards refused to learn. He could be unstoppable. He could hold knowledge that his peers did not possess, simply because they were too frightened to dabble with Dark Magic _._

Riddle was right. It was the intentions of a wizard that made them dark or light.

Still… it _was_ Dark Magic for a reason and Ron was hesitant to make such a move.

As if sensing his thoughts, Riddle chuckled. "I will have to share with you a few curses, Mr. Weasley. They will be very useful in the field as an Auror. Only if you wish to learn, of course. I could also tell you more stories about your grandmother and great-grandfather. I'm sure they would appreciate their legacy being passed down to you."

Ron nodded, overwhelmed with this new information. He wanted to look into this. He never considered Dark Magic before, if only because his parents were very adamant that it was immoral and nasty. Nevertheless, Riddle used it. He seemed like a good bloke. Moreover, despite his grandmother using Dark Magic, she'd been a kind-enough woman.

He wanted to know more about Cedrella. And Arcturus. That meant he could spend more time with Riddle, which was something he wanted.

Across from him, Riddle stiffened. Ron looked up, interested as something unfamiliar shifted in the man.

" _Checkmate_ ," the Minister hissed.

The older wizard's tone turned into something seductive, dark, and entirely foreign to Ron's ears. He noticed instantly that Riddle was not looking at him, but somewhere over Ron's shoulder.

He turned, looking to see what caught the man's intense observation, but no one was there.

As he turned back around, Riddle's expression was once again neutral as he studied his pocket watch. "I'm afraid, Mr. Weasley, that I have some business to attend to." He snapped his watch closed and stood up. "I enjoyed our visit very much. I appreciate you taking the time to sate an old man's boredom."

Ron flushed again. He didn't see it that way at all. "Er- the pleasure is all mine, Minister Riddle." He stood up quickly, wishing Hermione were here. She would be able to match the man's crisp and sophisticated tenor with equal intelligence. "I hope to do this again soon."

He basked in Riddle's comfortable and enthralling aura one last time.

"Rest assured, Ronald, we will meet again."

**. . Dreams . .**

"Sate an old man's boredom, indeed." Harry hissed, wrapping his hands around the man's throat as soon as the door closed behind Ron. He squeezed tightly, his leather gloves creaking at the pressure. "What the hell do you think you're doing with him? He is _off limits_. Just like your band of merry men."

Riddle hardly seemed deterred at Harry's threat. On the contrary, a small spike of arousal reverberated through the room, as if Riddle intentionally threw that particular emotion towards Harry's Empathy.

Harry stood on his toes behind the man, clutching the Dark Lord's neck and breathing threats in his ear. The taller man was forced to lean backwards a fraction, though he did nothing to defend himself. He did take a step back, however, and another. Harry narrowed his eyes as Riddle forced him against a wall.

If he wanted to, he would have escaped his current situation with ease.

Something stopped him, though. Something preened and quivered underneath the prospect of Riddle trapping him against the wall.

His hands fell away as the revelation occurred to him. It surprised him. Horrified him, even.

Riddle turned to face him, wearing something that resembled a smile, but far too dark in nature to be labeled as such. He neared closer, his hands dropping to Harry's narrow hips. A hesitant touch, as if he knew applying a significant amount of pressure would chase Harry away. "I have no intentions of harming Mr. Weasley."

"Don't play with him."

A deep hum sounded in Riddle's throat. "Are you threatened, Harry? No worries, I only enjoy playing with _you_."

At the seductive tone, something warm flushed the back of Harry's neck. He snorted at both himself and Riddle. "My, Riddle, feeling a bit frisky today?" He pushed away from the man in order to clear his thoughts. "Stay away from—"

A restrictive hand curled around his bicep and pushed him back against the wall.

The sheer _audacity!_

"Do you truly have any grounds to demand anything, child?" Riddle breathed, pushing closer. With one hand wrapped around Harry's arm, and the other settled on his waist, Riddle leaned in close. "I asked you not to hunt Braun alone. You disregarded my requests."

"Requests?" Harry repeated the word as if it were extremely humorous. "It was more like an order. And we both know I don't take orders from you, _Tom_." He pulled his arm from Riddle's grasp. "You gave me an assignment with the option of using three of your followers. I am confident in my abilities to execute this myself. Solo."

Actually, he needed someone from Riddle's cult to execute his plan, but he would rather not address it just yet.

Riddle remained silent, studying Harry intensely. He was currently in his Minister persona, as Ron probably wouldn't have understood the man's sudden fountain of youth just yet.

At the thought of his friend, Harry's irritation piqued further. He hadn't believed his eyes at first, seeing Riddle and Ron cozying up by the fire and delighting in a game of thought-provoking chess. As if it were a regular occurrence! Harry had seen Ron's expression when the redhead left the lounge.

It was clear the boy was smitten with the Minister, exactly how Riddle intended it to be.

The Dark Lord looked pointedly at Harry's stubborn chin and his obstinate glare. His attention then lowered to the younger wizard's lips, desire clearly stated in his eyes. "An eye for an eye." As if burdened heavily, Riddle pulled away from Harry and swept across the lounge. "I don't expect you to obey my orders, but it would be nice to have a partnership, don't you think?"

Despite the situation, Harry's lips twitched. "A partnership is not built on blackmail and threats, Riddle."

"It was the only way to catch and hold your attention."

Hardly unlikely. From day one, Riddle unknowingly garnered Harry's attention.

Rather despondently, Harry noticed the man's magic fluidly shedding his Minister persona and revealing his younger self. He couldn't help but to watch, almost obsessively, as Riddle's face smoothed and sharpened, growing handsome, aristocratic planes.

Riddle poured himself a drink. "Perhaps someday we can work together flawlessly."

"And what fun would that be without an occasional challenge?" Harry countered. He opened his mouth to further press the subject of Ron, but Riddle suddenly turned, his gaze intense enough to render Harry speechless.

" _That_ is why you are not one of them," he whispered fiercely. Around him, his magic trembled aggressively. Something indescribable settled across the older man's face as he watched Harry. "My followers would not dare to challenge me, nor will I allow it. Nevertheless, I know it is crucial to have someone continue pushing from behind, making certain I don't turn lax."

Harry couldn't help it. He laughed mockingly. Though Riddle did not outright _say it,_ Harry noticed the insinuating. "And you think _I_ could fill that role? You won't even let me hunt an immoral politician alone, Riddle. If you have no respect for my abilities, how could you possibly trust me enough to prevent you from turning negligent?"

Hell, he wouldn't deny the surprise washing through him at Riddle's admission. With the surprise, however, came suspicion. Trust Riddle to manipulate him this way. He was a master Svengali, after all. Riddle would recognize that each person required a different approach when it came to manipulating.

Perhaps he'd found Harry's buttons, after all.

Green eyes narrowed suspiciously. But if that wasn't the case…

Riddle leaned against the bar and observed Harry thoughtfully from over the rim of his glass. "Fine, child." He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes lowering with pleasure. "Hunt alone to your heart's content."

Cloaked in the room's natural shadow, Harry remained standing in the corner behind the door. If someone were to come inside unannounced, he had an escape and means to hide himself. He preferred being the first one to see newcomers and the first to react. It was instinctive, but it had its advantages, like now.

He was across the room from Riddle, a good distance stretching between them. They surveyed each other, sizing the other up predatorily, or, at least Harry watched predatorily. Riddle tried and failed at hiding his smug amusement.

Harry seethed.

What he wouldn't give to wipe that smug expression off Riddle's arrogant face. For a moment, he stopped breathing when scenarios danced behind his eyes. Only, the scenarios weren't bloody and murderous. They were pleasurable. For the both of them. What he'd do when he had Riddle on his back…

The man would gasp and he'd falter, simply because no one had ever given him such depth of pleasure. To have control over such a man… to cause Riddle unbalance and distortion… and to have the man return the favor, to extract his own brand of—

Harry stiffened, drawing Riddle's sharp eye from across the room.

"Ron—"

"Mm!" Riddle tipped the remaining whiskey hurriedly, appearing wickedly eager to broach the topic. "I knew you'd come back to that."

"Of course I'd come back to that," Harry hissed, especially angry after his mind had taken him somewhere he never wanted to go again. "You used the cliché speech about good versus evil and the intentions of others. How Dark Magic isn't truly evil. Only, it is because it's extremely addicting and causes users to grow unhinged."

Something clearly caused Riddle unbridled delight. "My, my, Harry, you're just as black and white about Dark Magic as you are about your own morals."

Harry stepped out from the shadows and approached Riddle, his feathers ruffled though his expression remained closed. "I admit that Dark Magic is useful and gives the user a unique flavor of power, but some wizards and witches crumble under its crushing hold."

"And you think Ronald will become one of the Dark's victims?"

"I never said that."

Riddle smiled with teeth. "I can help him reach his fullest potential."

Harry's hand curled into a fist at the very notion. "I'm sure you can. And then you'll use him."

The Dark Lord hardly seemed bothered by Harry's admission. If anything, it only served to encourage their current line of discussion. "My services _do_ come at a price." He appeared interested in Harry's approach, almost eager. "At present time, if Mr. Weasley were to find out about your… extracurricular activities, I imagine he would turn his back on you. If I can work on him, you'll have a firm ally. Wouldn't you like that, _Harry_?"

At the man's goading, shock stopped Harry short. He then chortled. Loudly.

"Do you think I really care?"

His lips twisted as he remembered Hermione learning about his secret. Ron would be the same. Sirius would be the same.

"I've already accepted the fact my identity will be revealed with time, Riddle. And with that revelation, I've accepted that those I care for will look at me with repulsion." Hermione could never meet his eyes. She didn't know how to react anymore. "But that doesn't matter. Even if it's from afar, I can still protect them."

Riddle looked at Harry curiously. "Then there _is_ a part of you that acknowledges what you are."

"What I am?" Harry repeated, a wary grin twisting his lips. Why did everyone assume he was under false illusions? "You're under a misguided notion that I believe I'm some sort of deity."

"Your actions speak volumes."

Resisting the urge to repeat the man's words yet again, Harry just quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. "I'm a killer." He held Riddle's stare. "Nevertheless, I feel as if my actions are justified and they are necessary. The men and women I hunt and kill deserve death."

Riddle pushed off from the bar and slowly made his way to Harry. "And the members of my inner-circle?" he inquired lowly.

"I never said I wanted to kill them, nor that they deserved death."

The Dark Lord circled him from a distance. "And if I were to betray our mutual _partnership_?" His tone grew hypnotic, quiet. "Would you deny the temptation to hunt each of those men and women just to get back at me? They are tainted. They are corrupt."

The rebuttal was at the tip of his tongue before the man's words truly set in. Harry turned cold and silent. Wasn't that exactly what he was thinking the night Riddle 'introduced' him to his inner-circle? He hadn't realized it at the time, but imagining killing all those people just to get back at Riddle had come instinctively.

It was just a whim, of course. Harry hadn't truly meant it. There were other ways of taking them away from Riddle without killing them.

"I know people are tainted, most are," Harry responded levelly, not giving away how much Riddle's words shook him. "Which is why I need evidence of truly corrupt wrongdoings before I eliminate them."

Riddle continued to circle around the room. He kept his distance, though. " _Eliminate them_ is such a politically correct term for what you really do, Harry." He seemed amused. Always amused. "I'm curious. What would you do if you discovered the true taint I possess? Would you… _eliminate_ me?"

"We've already established that I've wanted to eliminate you since day one, Riddle."

The Dark Lord chuckled as if he knew Harry's words were empty.

And they were.

Harry floundered, Riddle taking him off guard a second time that night. The other man posed a particularly curious question. What _would_ he do if he witnessed the true ugliness underneath Riddle sophisticated charm? He knew the man was dangerous. The way he treated his followers with such little regard was mere proof of his depravity.

If given the chance, would he kill Riddle?

He didn't understand why the answer remained so elusive, so out of reach.

"You're with the darkness now, Harry." Riddle breathed the words against the back of his neck, having appeared suddenly behind him. A sharp nail traced the skin just above his cloak. "We accept who you are and celebrate your remarkable talents."

The words were rubbish, pure propaganda, but the _fingernail…_ It ignited a reaction in his groin he could not ignore.

"Riddle." He exhaled the name as if it were a release. "Don't touch me."

The fingernail abruptly removed itself from the nape of Harry's neck. He smirked at the far wall, slyly pleased the man followed his order. However, his delight didn't last long, as a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and an arm snaked around his waist. Forcibly, his back pressed against a thin, yet solid chest.

Aggressively, Riddle yanked Harry's head back and sunk his teeth into the younger man's neck. He nearly broke skin, he had to have, but his tongue and lips eagerly sucked away the pain, easing the sting and increasing the pleasure. The hand around Harry's waist abruptly flattened against his taunt stomach, pressing him closer, exerting greedy pressure.

Green eyes dilated before widening.

His pulse raced quickly and he shifted. As he brought up his foot to step on the man's toes, Riddle surprised him by hooking his leg around his own and holding it down. Along with the tightening hands and arms, Riddle's magic soon joined in the fray and reinforced Harry's submission.

" _Yesss_ ," Riddle hissed, pleased. "Fight against me. Struggle." The pure decadence in the Dark Lord's tone sent another jolt down to Harry's groin. As if sensing the response, Riddle's hand traveled down and cupped Harry's straining manhood. "As much as you'd like to deny it, you enjoy this. Immensely."

Harry laughed and rubbed against Riddle's growing erection, relishing the man's sharp intake of breath.

"You think you have the upper hand, Riddle?"

He grabbed the inner joint of Riddle's elbow and pinched down on the man's thumb at the same time. Applying pressure, but not a significant amount, Riddle hissed and released him enough for Harry to turn. Sliding his hands up the Dark Lord's chest, Harry pushed, causing Riddle to fold elegantly onto the couch.

Crimson eyes stared up at him and Harry leaned over, bracing one hand on top of the sofa next to Riddle's head. He leveled their eyes and smirked. Something dark and sinister encouraged him to continue this game. His instincts warned him otherwise, for this was something Riddle desperately wanted. Why should he give into such ridiculousness?

Because it was _delicious._

A pale hand cupped Harry's chin and pulled him into a searing kiss. He stiffened at the intimacy, not entirely inclined to lip lock as often as Riddle desired. This was about getting release, wasn't it? Hard, hot, and aggressive. Kissing was emotional and it brought a certain softness into the situation Harry wasn't accustomed with.

Yet, as he planted a knee on either side of Riddle's lap and leaned into the kiss, he couldn't help but to feel intrigued.

Riddle was forceful with his kiss, using teeth and an after-caress of tongue. His hand tightened forcibly on Harry's jawline, allowing him leeway to the younger man's hot mouth.

Harry broke the kiss, looking down into Riddle's clouded eyes. Though there was a film of desire and lust over the Dark Lord's eyes, it did nothing to quell the cold darkness in that stare or dim the predatory gleam. Magic, that tantalizing and provoking magic Harry enjoyed so much, slowly began to unfold around them and invoke further pleasure.

Looking down at Riddle, Harry saw an untamable prey.

Chuckling, he gathered Riddle's wrists in one hand and forcibly prevented the man from touching, from grabbing. Leaning forward, he latched onto the man's neck, sucking, claiming, and marking. His teeth scraped the sensitive skin and Riddle stiffened beneath him. The man breathed heavily in his ear, as if strained and eager.

For good measure, he added more weight onto Riddle's lap, grinding their erections together through their constricting clothes.

"Yes," the Dark Lord moaned, taking Harry's ear between his teeth.

His tongue then swirled underneath Harry's ear, sending a ticklish sensation down the younger man's spine. As a result, Harry released Riddle's wrists and raked both hands through the man's hair. He pulled, extracting quite a bit of pressure as he forced the Dark Lord's head back.

Analyzing the exposed throat, he bypassed it and eagerly claimed Riddle's parted lips.

They kissed heatedly, neither one of them playing the submissive role. They clashed and they exerted their own brand of dominance. It was a… unique experience on Harry's end, and he was knew it was new to Riddle as well.

Hands grabbed his hips and forcibly set him down harder on the lap beneath him. Harry snapped back to reality when his arse was now the object of Riddle's violent grinding. He knew the next step was removal of clothes. Considering Riddle's overactive magic, that next step would be instantons.

"I don't think so," he breathed in amusement.

"You're still on top," Riddle reminded him impatiently.

"On top with a cock in my arse." Harry tightened his hold in Riddle's hair, not relenting. Refusing to bend. "If you don't think it's a big deal, let's switch positions then."

Through his hazy lust, Riddle managed to laugh. "Why must you be so difficult?" His eyes turned half-lidded as he touched Harry's stubborn face. "Though I wouldn't have it any other way."

Suddenly, a quiet but persistent beeping sounded across the room. Harry looked to see the source and found the Ministry-issued orb flashing red. "You're being summoned," he informed smugly, looking pointedly at Riddle's tented pants. "My, Minister Riddle, the day will be rather uncomfortable for you, no?"

Riddle's strike was as quick as it was vengeful and unpredictable. He grabbed Harry's face and used the momentum to push him down on the couch. He climbed on top quickly, using both his weight and magic to render the smaller male motionless. Lowering himself between Harry's open legs, the man grinded their groins together at a frantic pace.

His hand remained curled around Harry's throat, cutting off a good majority of his air supply.

The friction was indescribably arousing. Though Harry refused to admit it, the dominating and constricting hold around his throat put a strain on his manhood. Coupled with the depravity of the situation, the persistent beeping from the Ministry pager, and Riddle's thrumming magic, Harry closed his eyes and lost control.

Fortunately, Riddle wasn't too far behind, mere proof their static tension was enough to get them off to a good start.

"Actually, I think it will be a very _satisfying_ day, Mr. Potter."

As if nothing transpired, Riddle stood from the couch and spelled himself crisp and clean.

His eyes found Harry's flushed features and something shifted in his eyes. A considering frown settled across his mouth as he buttoned his cloak properly and straightened his tie. Harry didn't like that look. The man was contemplating something and it was always an unknown with Riddle.

"What?" Harry hissed.

The enigmatic emotion left Riddle's face and he smirked smugly down at Harry. "Why don't you stay here and practice your Occlumency? I'm sure you're coming along wonderfully by yourself."

Harry hadn't even had a chance to enter his mind yet, and he was sure Riddle knew all too well he'd been too preoccupied with Braun to practice Occlumency. "Wonderfully is an understatement, Riddle." He sat up and ran a hand through his disorderly locks. "I'm already constructing barriers down in the dungeons."

" _Wonderful_ ," Riddle praised dryly, smiling. "Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind me poking around."

The younger wizard stood from the couch, watching as Riddle glided across the room and touched the orb. It silenced and turned back to a milky white.

"I need to speak to you about Braun."

It was the whole _reason_ for his visit today, but Riddle clearly had other plans for today's social call. Harry reluctantly handed the man the win for this round. He'd been ready to face Harry the moment he moved his first chess piece against Ron Weasley. Nothing had gone in Harry's favor, besides the satisfying, albeit juvenile _release._

"I'm ready to act, but I need something from you."

That left a sour taste in his mouth. Judging from the stillness in Riddle's limbs, Harry's admittance startled him as well. The Dark Lord, having applied his Minister persona once again, paused in glamouring the bruises around his neck. He looked at Harry through the mirror, his dark eyes flashing.

"Oh?"

"A young witch or wizard. Entirely Pure-blood."

The man's lips thinned and he turned with a flourish. "We will have this discussion later." He grabbed his outer cloak and looked pointedly at Harry. "Practice Occlumency."

Without another word, the Dark Lord vanished.

**. . & Darkness . .**

When Harry imagined his discussion with the Dark Lord about Braun, he hadn't expected this _._

His jaw clenched as multiple eyes jumped from him to the Dark Lord at his right. It was still Yuletide and Riddle had announced the feast just hours before the actual event. When Harry first heard about this _fantastic banquet_ , he assumed it was on Christmas Eve and he'd gotten out of it by attending the Weasley's gathering. Imagine his surprise when Riddle planned it for today, January 1st, the Feast of Frey.

He had Quidditch practice tonight, on top of a celebration of the New Year with said Quidditch _friends._

"I don't have time for this," Harry muttered to the wizard next to him. "I have places to be."

"Your place is at my side," Riddle replied pleasantly, hardly giving Harry much attention as he focused on his meal. "If you want one of my followers, you have to tolerate a meal amongst them."

Lashes lowered as he surveyed the number of men and women in the hall. He doubted this was the true extent of Riddle's cult. The majority of the occupants were the man's inner-circle, their families, and other witches and wizards who appeared as equally as self-entitled. Harry kept his hood up to veil his features, not inclined to reveal his identity to those present.

Riddle forced his inner-circle's silence on _Custos_. As for the others, Harry wasn't prone to take his chances.

He was apathetic to Riddle's intentions tonight. Despite Riddle denying it, Harry assumed the man wanted to show off his most recent conquest. The followers would see _Custos_ as their Lord's collared pet. And yet, they couldn't be further from the truth.

Stabbing a sliver of pork and sauerkraut, Harry chewed, reluctantly acknowledging the delectable food. It was the only thing keeping him glued to his seat. Fortunately, he was almost finished. Drinks and socializing would follow the feast, and Harry intended to be gone by that time.

His eyes landed on Barty Crouch Junior, smirking as the man sent his own brand of greeting in his direction.

Riddle wanted to twist Ron Weasley. He wanted to stake some sort of claim on one of Harry's friends to get under his skin. Why shouldn't Harry twist one of Riddle's followers as well? It would almost be too easy with Barty, however. And yet… the Dark Lord would surely be displeased.

It was almost worth considering.

A strong and persistent wave of utter distaste and hate nearly slapped Harry in the face. Upon his arrival in the hall, he garnered enough displeasure from Riddle's followers to drown out most of the emotions. They didn't like him, _Custos_ , and they didn't like the fact that he had the nerve to sit next to their Lord.

But this was different.

He inclined his head, casually looking toward the source of negative emotions.

_Ah._

Blaise Zabini.

Harry set down his fork and grabbed the napkin on his lap. He wiped the growing smirk off his mouth. The beautifully sculptured face of Zabini stuck out noticeably amongst the sea of Riddle's followers. Aside from his attractiveness, his clear distaste was even more noticeable. The boy's eyes were drilling holes into Harry, and the sneer twisting his lips almost made that handsome face ugly.

Harry submerged himself in the hate coming from the boy. Yes, he caused this feeling. No, he did not feel guilty.

A light-sounding bell echoed across the hall and a few wizards and witches stood up from their tables. Their plates of food disappeared and their choice of beverage immediately occupied their hands. Harry watched in wary amusement as their pompous arses slowly left the hall. Others chose to stay behind and finish their meals, indicating it was a flexible evening with no set timetable.

It was a good enough time as any to retreat.

He stood up, dropping his napkin and bowing stiffly with mock respect. "Thank you, My Lord, for such a delicious meal. Unfortunately, I must be on my way."

Riddle was displeased by his sudden departure, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care. If his suspicions were accurate, he needed to face Zabini sooner rather than later. The last thing he wanted was to look over his shoulder for the boy's surprise attack. Harry wasn't threatened, but it was an inconvenience and something he'd rather not waste his time on.

As he moved between the tables, the atmosphere turned heavy and voices lowered into surprised whispers.

Before he had the chance to turn and identify the source of agitation, a line of fire circled around his line of sight. The flame was low, and it traced a large, looping circle around Harry and…

He turned, spying Zabini standing opposite of him inside the rune circle.

"I knew it would work," Zabini boasted, an ugly and intense scowl on his face. "You have dirty blood, just as I suspected. Why else would you use such primitive methods to kill your victims?" He motioned at the ring of fire. "Do you know what this is, Mudblood?"

_Mudblood_?

Harry rocked to the heels of his feet, unimpressed. He expected an assault from Zabini, but he hadn't expected one so soon and so _public._ The rune prevented Harry from stepping outside the circle until the ritual was complete. It also prevented anyone from interfering, but it did nothing to veil observers. Shocked and eager eyes of Riddle's cult unabashedly watched the proceedings as if it were cheap entertainment.

His eyes landed on Riddle from over Zabini's head. The Dark Lord sat stiffly at the head table, his nostrils pinched and his crimson eyes suspiciously bright.

Harry doubted the man was concerned for the inhibitors inside the rune circle. The man was most likely furious at Zabini for going against his orders. No matter how this situation turned out, Zabini's fate did not look promising.

"Of course you wouldn't," Zabini continued, taking Harry's silence as ignorance. "This ritual is cast by Pure-bloods who were wronged by those of lesser blood. If I didn't have justification in challenging you, this rune circle would have never come into fruition. You killed my _mother_ , and I will extract proper vengeance!"

Harry's Empathy noticed a wave of righteous agreement amongst the majority of Riddle's followers. Harry knew he'd upset the Pure-blood society by killing off Macnair and Zabini, and even faced with the consequences now, he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Being a Pure-blood did not make them exempt from punishment.

"I thought underestimation was the first weakness the Dark Lord extracted from his followers," Harry stated darkly. "You forget this ritual is nondiscriminatory. I have an equal chance of winning."

The dark-skinned boy reared his head in amusement, as if that outcome were simply outrageous. "I'll take my chances. Either way, this ritual is not complete unless one of us dies."

_No shite_ , Harry thought in delight, dropping his wand into his gloved hand.

"Now, I think it's only fair we get to see the identity of the wizard who killed one of our own." Blaise got down in a dueling stance and sent a strong gust of wind in Harry's direction.

For what intentions, Harry did not know. Surely, he didn't think he could simply _blow_ away the hood that covered his features.

Chuckling, Harry nonverbally raised a shield and bounced the spell back in Zabini's direction. The boy flew through the air and hit the invisible shield that prevented him from leaving the rune circle. He scrambled up, the embarrassment clear in his eyes.

Well, this wouldn't do. Harry quite preferred seeing the _fire._

"Zabini?" Harry called silkily, adjusting his hood further over his features. "Your mother…" he trailed off softly, pleased at the tension coiling in the air. Making sure he had the boy's attention, he continued. "…was a good lay, albeit a bit too loose for my tastes."

Zabini screamed; spit flying from his mouth in pure rage.

_Oh, but wasn't Zabini's reaction delicious?_

The boy threw a string of Dark curses in Harry's direction, Dark curses that were mere child's play. Were these the type of curses Riddle would show Ron initially? To get the redhead hooked and reliant upon the Darkness? These curses were simple and they were merely an enticing teaser for the real thing.

This would be too easy. Almost disappointing.

Harry never wanted Riddle's cult to figure out his identity at _Custos_. Harry Potter was a Light wizard, and his magic preferred the lighter branches of spells and hexes. However, that did not mean he had never dabbled in the Dark before. He knew spells that would put Zabini to shame and deter Riddle's followers from his identity.

_And…_ a small voice crooned… _to show Tom Riddle your views on magic are not as black and white as he claims them to be._

Brushing aside that persistent voice, Harry drew upon the Darkness. It was familiar enough to recognize just below the surface. Like an agitated and slighted entity, it reared up through his magical core, eager to use him once more. It curled possessively around his wand arm and bathed him in power he knew would corrupt a simple mind.

It was all a pretense, a mere seduction. One could not truly harness the Darkness unless they fully embraced both the ugliness and the beauty.

" _Peredo,"_ Harry intoned, casting a shield in front of him.

The shield immediately absorbed Zabini's spells and did not rebound them back to the boy. Zabini continued to attack him using curses that were meant to harm, maim, and kill. He was a vengeful serpent, spitting his curses and hardly tiring. Opposite of him, Harry was a picture of serenity.

His shield, resembling a black hole, ate up most of Zabini's curses. The curses that had enough power seeped past the shield and Harry calmly erected another barrier. Until his _Peredo_ reached its pinnacle, Harry would play the role of defense. Then he'd act on the offense.

They traded curses for quite some time. Harry got a feel for Zabini, and Zabini grew comfortable with Harry's cool indifference, which only served to infuriate him.

The boy flushed, hollering something incoherent. The red curse soared straight through the black hole and past Harry's second line of defense. It hit him in the leg and Harry went down, bracing his hands against the floor to prevent himself from falling ungracefully. The pain was excruciating, yet Harry didn't scream out.

He grimaced, fury licking away his calm. Whatever spell Zabini cast, it affected his muscle. And if there was one thing Harry did not appreciate, it was permanent damage to his physical body, his greatest weapon.

" _Rumpo Osseus,"_ Zabini screamed.

Abandoning his earlier plans of playing with the boy until fatigue rendered him useless, Harry reared up and sent a powerful wave of raw magic towards his opponent. The Darkness eagerly swirled and took the form of a clouded serpent. Opening its mouth, it raced toward Zabini and the oncoming curse.

As the serpent passed the observers, glasses shattered and the air turned frigid. Some rushed away from the duel, dodging past flying glass and casting their own shields to protect themselves.

The serpent ate Zabini's curse and continued for the boy. As much as Harry wished otherwise, he knew the conjured magic would not harm the boy, only breathe a noxious darkness before dissolving. While Zabini remained distracted in defending himself against the approaching serpent, Harry enlarged his earlier _Peredo_ shield, which was now ready, and sent it racing to his opponent.

Just as the serpent dissolved, the _Peredo_ shield stretched into a dark web and embraced Zabini like a second skin. The boy stumbled back, likely never having heard of a defensive spell turning offensive.

The black web glowed a brilliant white before disappearing completely into Zabini's body. For a moment, Zabini stood motionless, trying to discern what damage it had done.

He wouldn't discover the damage until it was too late, however.

Harry straightened while not putting any weight on his right leg. He watched, fascinated, as Zabini tried a powerful _Finite Incantatem_ on himself. Seemingly pleased with the results, Zabini cast a strong _Crucio_ curse in Harry's direction.

Only, the spell went over Harry's shoulder and Zabini wheezed loudly.

The boy's eyes widened and his limbs trembled, but he persisted. The fool he was, he couldn't possibly know what the _Peredo_ was and how to reverse its effects. It was an extremely Dark curse, and one not everyone was privy too. If Harry had used it against someone like Bellatrix or Snape, they'd have reversed it long ago. In this case, however, Harry sat back and watched, delighted in Zabini's uncensored shock.

With each curse Zabini cast, the boy's body visibly deteriorated. His rich, chocolate skin turned grey and gaunt, his dark eyes white and lifeless. The healthy fat around his joints disappeared, turning him into a frail skeleton-like man. Skin sagged on his face as he dropped to his knees, shuddering.

The robes nearly fell off his frame and his breath came out in rattled wheezes.

"W-what did you do to me?" he screamed.

Harry tsked. The boy had been so confident before starting the duel. Now that he faced defeat, he didn't seem so cocky, so sure. "It's draining your magic." He limped closer to Zabini. "You should have felt the drain earlier and realized the _Peredo_ was absorbing your magic. Instead, with your thick mind, you chose to continue casting magic anyway."

Raw hate crossed the boy's—corpse's—features. _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Chuckling, Harry stepped into the faint Killing Curse before it dissolved at his feet. "Weak."

Zabini choked and a few teeth fell out of his decaying gum line. They dropped to the ground at Zabini's knees and the boy made a distressed sound in his throat. His eyes rolled up toward a looming Harry, looking as if they were nearly going to pop out of his sockets. With time, they would.

Silence stretched in the hall. Despite Zabini being one of their own, they were like-minded sheep. They would respect the ritual for what it was and not even _try_ to interfere.

Harry raised his wand, feeling pity for the boy. Such an idiot.

An idiot, but not someone Harry wanted to kill.

He reversed the effects of the _Peredo_ and sent a quick, heart attack curse at the boy. Zabini collapsed, his body twisting and his hands groping his chest in fear and pain. His features, which were slowly turning back to their flawless youth, twisted in horror and resignation. He was so ready to die. He accepted it.

Harry knew that feeling all too well and he forced himself to watch it.

Before long, Zabini turned still.

The ritual and the rune disappeared.

Harry stepped on Zabini's chest and pushed aside the clutching and suffocating Darkness within him. Instead, he garnered the purity of Light magic and pointed his wand at Estella Zabini's child.

" _Revivisco_."

He said it not once, not twice, but three times before Zabini's heart caught. The boy jerked awake, gasping and trembling. Harry dropped his wand at his side, executing pressure on Zabini's throat with his boot. He made sure the boy noticed who stood over him, who brought him back from the dead. Once the awareness entered the boy's eyes, Harry removed his foot and limped out the room.

But then, his eyes happened across _her._

He stopped short, staring at her pale and pointed features. Her _youth_ and her blood purity. Her pale eyes widened when she realized his attention was on her. The two adults sitting next to her crowded close, as if they were protecting her from Harry's surveillance.

Raising a hand, he pointed directly at her. "You will be perfect."

Because he was feeling rather vindictive, he dropped his hand and escaped the silent and observing hall. Let Riddle clean up his mess. Let him soothe the feathers of his cult members. And most importantly, let him explain to the Greengrass family why their youngest daughter would be the perfect bait for Undersecretary Braun.

He had Quidditch practice, after all.

**. . Collide . .**

"Where is William Stratton's file?!" Kingsley roared, searching through the mountain of paperwork at his desk.

Due to the late hour, no one responded, though he hadn't been looking for an answer. He shifted through the papers, causing a good majority to fall and scatter all over the floor. He exhaled tiredly and slumped into his chair, rubbing his forehead. He needed an assistant. He was getting too busy to sort all these papers into sectioned folders.

He removed his hands, considering the mess of paperwork. He could have sworn an Unspeakable placed a folder on his desk pertaining to William Stratton's background check…

A soft flutter sounded on his left, startling him.

Raising his wand instinctively, he pointed it at nothing but empty air. His eyes dropped and he frowned at the piece of parchment on the ground. It was dissimilar to the rest of his paperwork, simply because it was an odd color and unfamiliar penmanship looped in blue ink.

Kingsley cast a few detecting spells on the parchment, but nothing damaging proved to be on the letter. Cautiously, he reached down and picked it up, reading the words slowly.

_I know who_ Custos _is, do you?_

_Dementors are soulless and evil, Mr. Shacklebolt. They inflict horror upon their victims and leave them with nothing but their worst life experiences. What better way to draw out a powerful Emapth, who hunts tainted individuals, then by presenting him with the foulest taint personified?_

Kingsley frowned and flipped over the bit of parchment. There was no signature, no seal, just an ominous suggestion.

He snorted and set the parchment on his desk. There was no way in hell he'd use Dementors to catch _Custos._ The idea was absurd. And yet… his eyes lingered on the letter. He looked away, sweat lining his brow before he looked back. He couldn't. Dementors were in Azkaban, guarding the prisoners.

How would that look to the public if they resorted to such measures? Nevertheless, _Custos_ continued to remain elusive, so far from reach. The letter confirmed that the serial killer was an Empath. They had their first lead, so why not use their only lead to their advantage?

But Dementors…

It was merely a suggestion, a suggestion Kingsley needed to ponder.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Astoria's perspective in this chapter. Next one will be more Harry-orientated, promise.
> 
> Warnings: Grammar errors- probably a lot, as I didn't spend much time editing.

**18\. Chapter Eighteen**

Tom was conceived under the act of coercion and the obsessive enthrall of love potions.

He was literally _incapable_ of love, incapable of displaying affection. After getting over the heartbreak of Riddle Senior's abandonment, Merope had researched the effects her actions would have on her unborn child. She'd grown cold with realization, suddenly bombarded with the eternal hell she'd put her child through just for a Muggle's returned affections.

It was her responsibility to try to remedy her failures. She could not leave and abandon her child to a perdition she'd created for him.

Merope tried her best to raise him with the familiarity of emotions, of sensibility and pride. Once Tom attended Hogwarts, and Morfin no longer disrupted their lives, Merope learned a great deal from her son in terms of magic and potions.

Together with her son, she tried to install the most basic of emotions within him. They'd made progress, and yet, whether it was due to the impossibility of their task or Tom's insistence that emotions were for the weak, her son truly only grasped a few prevailing emotions.

Obsession, possessiveness, anger, and entitlement.

Certainly not the emotions Merope strived to teach her son.

As a child, Tom displayed these dark emotions with vigor. When he found a particular item worth possessing, he dived headlong into impossible obstacles to obtain it. He'd kept it as a trophy amongst his other collections and preened at his possession. Moreover, when there was ever a topic of interest to him, whether it be a ritual, a potion, or a complicated spell, Tom obsessed endlessly until he mastered it with ease.

Since growing out of adolescence, he no longer publicized these emotions.

They were stronger, though, more predominant. Darker.

Nothing surprised her when it came to her child. She knew him well and she loved him unconditionally. Yet, when Harry Potter walked into her son's life, Merope saw a very different side to Tom that she'd ever seen before.

Tom had never focused his obsession and energy on a single individual. He found it beneath him. Why waste resources and attention on _one_ when he can court a whole room full of men and women at once? But this type of obsession was unique to Tom and certainly not something Merope was familiar with.

For now, Tom had control over it. It was a small flame at the tips of his fingers.

All too soon, however, it would engulf his entire person.

It would not end well.

She knew, better than anyone, that obsessive _love_ would only grow and fester. Such a strong, ill emotion was never easy to control. In turn, it would chase away the object of affection. After all, it was not true love. It was ugly and dark.

Harry Potter was also a mother's son, more ironically, a son of a woman who tried to install _too much_ love and emotion in her child. Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were two sides of the same coin, completely different, yet originating closely from the same intentions. She doubted Potter, a mere _boy_ who felt too much, would ever swallow and accept Tom's only possible way of showing affection.

Merope tried to tell Tom this, yet he charmingly denied her allegations.

To him, Potter was an enigma, useful, and pleasing on the eyes. Nothing more.

Silly boy, even if she were a mere portrait now, he was a fool for thinking he could lie to her. She saw his obsession, knew what it was, and knew it would only grow stronger until it entrapped Tom. Tom had bigger plans, much larger and more important things to worry about than _Potter._

All she could do was observe from her portrait.

When the time came, she would give Tom proper advice.

**. . Dreams . .**

Astoria didn't understand the full implications of tonight's events.

It was nearly a week ago that _Custos_ destroyed Zabini in a blood duel before reviving him. Nearly a week ago, _Custos_ pointed directly at her and declared her perfect. Since then, her father told her absolutely nothing, choosing to hold secret meetings with the Dark Lord and Lucius Malfoy.

Aside from their pointed looks, they told her nothing.

It didn't surprise her. After all, she'd been the last to know Draco Malfoy was her future husband.

They appeared worried as socially acceptable for two, adult pure-blood wizards. They were first angry and then they appeared reluctantly obedient. Astoria somehow fit into _Custos'_ plans, and in turn, the Dark Lord's plans.

They would never go against their Master's orders.

It disappointed her at first, learning about _Custos'_ alliance with the Dark Lord. Astoria and many peers her age supported _Custos'_ fierce independence and neutrality. They enjoyed reading about his endeavors and supported his beliefs. He was radical and so… _gray_. Nothing about _Custos_ seemed light or dark. His intentions seemed pure—light—but the way he went about things were entirely dark.

She'd wanted to meet him, to know his identity.

However, now that she had that opportunity, Astoria preferred ignorance.

"Everything will be just fine, Astoria." Her father placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We will be with you every step of the way."

Astoria inclined her head in acknowledgement. She sat stiffly in the armchair, not entirely comfortable in the Dark Lord's presence. The man, along with her father and Lucius Malfoy, waited in limbo for someone Astoria assumed was _Custos._ From the way her father continued to check his pocket watch, Britain's serial killer was late.

Astoria knew she'd act as bait for some politician in Germany. Why, she didn't know. Who, she didn't know.

A man would die tonight, and she would be partially responsible.

The door opened and a lithe figure entered the parlor. Astoria straightened, identifying the young man immediately. Harry Potter. Disappointment soured her tongue as she remembered the bespectacled boy in Daphne's year. He'd been the Gryffindor Golden Boy with his two housemates joined at his hip.

He'd been popular amongst most the school, but he was… preppy and happy-go-lucky, not the imposing hero she'd imagined _Custos_.

However, that boy she remembered was not the young man in front of her. Darkness and seduction cloaked Potter now. His soft, youthful appearance had sharpened into very handsome planes. He looked nearly as sophisticated as the pure-blood wizards who prepped their entire lives for pompous recognition.

Sophistication aside, there was a certain wildness to him she'd never seen anyone else possess, save for the Dark Lord. It illuminated his pale features and cast the rest of his person in shadow. His eyes were wild, dangerous, and exotic green, chilling her entirely as he looked at her. They were particularly arousing, especially framed by thick, dark lashes.

No, this was not the boy she remembered from Hogwarts.

In his place was a very young man, albeit a precarious hunter.

"I wasn't aware…" he started softly, "that we were going to join hands and greet our target as a family."

Blankly, he eyed the occupants of the parlor before moving to a side table. He no longer limped; evidence that Zabini's hit during their duel had not permanently damaged him. Plopping down a duffle bag, he dug through the contents.

Astoria watched him, intrigued despite herself.

He was very lithe and slender, but she knew his body possessed powerful ropes of muscle. He was of average height, if not a few hairs shorter. Her eyes traced over broad shoulders and the thin waist and hips. He was entirely male. Not only from his agile and powerful body, but from the way he commanded a room.

"Mr. Greengrass and Mr. Malfoy will be observers for this assignment," the Dark Lord addressed smoothly. "They have agreed to Ms. Greengrass' participation under one condition."

"Oh?" _Custos_ inquired, hardly bothered to give the Dark Lord his attention. Had he done so, he would have noticed the crimson stare that had yet to look away since his arrival. "And what about _your_ condition?" he threw the question over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Astoria's for just a moment.

In a room full of influential and dominant men, it was a bit difficult to fall back on her aristocratic upbringing.

"Excuse me?" she found her voice.

"It is _your_ participation, not theirs. You are an adult capable of making your own decisions, are you not?"

"Be that as it may, Potter, she is promised to my son and her family is concerned for her wellbeing," Lucius interjected before Astoria could reply. "We require her to wear contacts that will give us a visual feed. We will know exactly what you're doing and call in reinforcements if the situation demands it."

"Reinforcements," Potter repeated, amused. "How will reinforcements help if we're inside a building that even the Dark Lord could not Apparate within? By the time you _see_ the danger and dispatch any sort of reinforcements, she and I will be dead."

She flinched at the implication.

"You will consent to the lenses, Mr. Potter."

It was the Dark Lord this time and Potter finally gave the man his attention. Something passed between them, something Astoria could not discern. They didn't _appear_ to be so friendly. And Potter certainly wasn't obedient and submissive like all the other Death Eaters. _Custos'_ past actions had suggested a strained alliance, Astoria was just glad she saw the proof first handedly.

It demonstrated his fierce independence. _Custos_ went against _all_ social norms.

"And there is also the ear piece—"

"As amusing as that idea may be, that is where I draw the line, Malfoy," Potter interrupted calmly. He turned back around and grabbed two small boxes from his bag. "I will not have several voices barking out opposing commands. I am calling the shots."

Lucius looked to the Dark Lord, but Riddle remained silent on the topic. Astoria smiled thinly, amused despite herself. Her mother told her it was a _privilege_ to marry into the Malfoy family. Daphne, her older sister, was rather jealous, yet supportive of the engagement. Moreover, despite her high marks in school and numerous awards, her father had never been prouder than when he agreed to the engagement.

Despite her family's excitement, Astoria didn't think the engagement was a blessing.

She felt like cattle, prime and ready for slaughter.

Perhaps that's why she saw _Custos_ as an idol. He was not light, nor was he dark. He pledged himself to no one and he abided by no rules. She wanted to be like him. She wanted to break free of the pure-blood expectations and standards. She wanted to run wild.

Yet something held her back.

"Your wand," a voice called softly, bringing her back to reality.

She looked at the wand sitting inside the box, curiosity brimming. As she reached to grab the ebony wand, a cold hand curled around her wrist, stopping her. She looked up, startled.

"Not yet, not without your new fingerprints." Potter winked and set aside the wand, _her_ wand. He then grabbed the second box and opened it. "Your hand, _Mademoiselle._ "

His French was nearly flawless, only adding to his allure. Astoria held out her hand, surprised when his grip was firm, yet gentle. He focused entirely on her fingers, though he seemed to keep the rest of the occupants in his line of vision. Running his wand over her hands, a wand Astoria assumed was _borrowed,_ she felt a cold sensation wash her skin.

She stared at his green eyes, marveling in their vivid color. Observing him this close gave Astoria a thrill.

"Does Ginevra Weasley know your secret?" she asked quietly, deliberately, watching as Potter grabbed a clear substance from the box next to them. "You are still dating her, aren't you? I remember you two were inseparable during your last year at Hogwarts."

He peeled back a sticker-like gel and carefully applied it to the pad of her finger. She stared at the thin covering as it melded over her finger. Small groves caught the light and she knew it would give her unrecognizable fingerprints. Marvelous. They were hardly detectable to her, and to the naked eye, they appeared as part of her skin.

"You'll also remember I was too smart to stand in a room full of Slytherins without any backup." He looked up at her slowly. "Clearly, a lot can change." And just like that, he avoided her question and busied himself with applying the remaining fingers.

Astoria did not engage him in further conversation. The silence from the other men was nearly deafening and she knew _Custos_ wouldn't be inclined to share. Of course, he might not be inclined to share in private, either.

_Custos_ stepped back and eyed her.

He then began to circle her.

Astoria stiffened, feeling self-conscious under his sharp observation.

He suddenly took her chin captive. "This will only hurt a moment."

A sharp pain originated from her earlobe, though it was gone in a matter of seconds. She resisted the urge to rub at her ear, and instead, turned to watch Potter as he grabbed a pair of earrings. "Those are—"

"Crafting jewelry is not my specialty," Potter admitted. "Though they will serve their purpose well."

"They reek of magic, Potter," Malfoy informed coldly from across the room. "Clearly, in addition to goldsmith, subtly is not your strong suit either."

Potter simply quirked a brow at the insult, hardly troubled over the comment. "The place we're going, Astoria, is an underground establishment cloaked by secrecy and glam. Glamours will not work there. As soon as you walk through the door, any glamour, no matter how powerful, will fall. Pure-bloods and the high aristocracy of Germany and other nations attend this exclusive club where all sorts of black market activities take place. Gambling, illegal trading, blackmail, trafficking, _everything._ "

Astoria straightened further in her seat, eager to hear the details of her mission. Unlike the adults around her, Potter didn't appear shy in sharing details.

"You are young enough, no one will identify you. Even if they did, no one is at this club out of pure intentions. The veil of secrecy around this establishment protects all identities. Besides, the club is not where I need you. If things work out, your target will lure you into his home. At that point, _he_ will veil your identity. It is not good publicity, after all, to leave with one as young as yourself."

"And my target?"

Before the words could properly leave her mouth, Potter handed her a photograph. "Undersecretary Braun of the German Ministry."

Cold sweat broke out across Astoria's brow. She hadn't realized this project was going to be so high risk. He had unfriendly eyes, the sort of eyes she was familiar with in the Dark Lord's circles. She wondered what he did to earn _Custos'_ interest.

"I'm supposed to…?" she trailed off in question, a loss for words. "I don't really understand. He will be interested in me?" She looked up at Potter, trying to find _something_ on his expression. "Sexually?"

Just a small twitch of Potter's lips conveyed his amusement. "Yes. Among other things. If he feels comfortable enough in your transportation to his home, under complete secrecy, he will also want to add you to his collection of pure-blood dolls. I tracked several cases of missing men and women back to Braun. He is in the business of sex trafficking. His favorites are kept personally and used as political motivation for potential allies."

Astoria looked to her father immediately, noticing he didn't appear surprised. He'd known. Moreover, he felt comfortable agreeing to use his daughter as bait.

As much as she admired _Custos,_ she was afraid.

"He's a monster."

"Fortunately, yes." _Custos_ took the photo from her and set it aside.

"Why fortunately?"

"Because, Greengrass, monsters are the only type of men I hunt." He reached over and clasped the earrings on her earlobes. "Braun is paranoid. I've surveyed the wards endlessly for any weak points and found none." He seemed to address the Dark Lord at this point. "I had to create something that would cause a temporary fraction as soon as he invites Greengrass inside his wards."

"Hence the jewelry," the Dark Lord conjectured smoothly. "As Lucius observed, the earrings are noxious in the amount of magic they spill. Braun will have his men scan for any magical objects and remove them before she's let inside. They are a smokescreen to the clever stud you embedded in her earlobe underneath the earrings."

Again, Astoria resisted the urge to touch the light throb in her ear. So that's what the sting had been earlier.

She stared at the Dark Lord, only comfortable doing so because his attention was engrossed firmly on Potter. He seemed inclined to give Potter the floor and prepare for tonight's events.

However, she couldn't help but to compare his fixated stare to a serpent eager to sink his fangs into Potter. No matter how small a movement Potter made, the Dark Lord watched with rapt attention, as if the younger wizard were simply too captivating to look away. She found the Dark Lord's attention simply _fascinating_.

Crimson eyes then looked to her and Astoria quickly glanced away, flustered.

"How will she explain the earrings in the first place?" her father inquired. "Won't Braun be suspicious of magical earrings?"

"No," Potter responded calmly. "Not if _she's_ oblivious to them, a very thoughtful gift from an overprotective father. If they run a diagnostic spell, they will find a powerful Chastity Hex. There will be no suspecting Greengrass."

This time, Astoria released a light chuckle. It was something her father had actually done to an unsuspecting Daphne.

"And the lenses you have stubbornly insisted on using to spy on us?" Potter inquired, looking pointedly at the Dark Lord and away from Malfoy. "What will they detect if they run a diagnostic spell?"

"Ordinary correctional charms an Optometrist would cast on the lenses."

Potter stared at the Dark Lord, a light curl to his lips. "Trust you'd be able to create something like that without leaving a trace."

The Dark Lord simply inclined his head, though his red eyes seemed to brighten considerably. "I can teach you if you wish, child."

Potter appeared unhappy at the mere idea of learning something from the Dark Lord. He turned back to look at Astoria, his distaste quickly falling way to blasé indifference. "After you are invited inside Braun's manor, I will slip inside after you. The ward breaker in your ear will only create a temporary crack in the wards. Thus, if we need assistance, it will take quite some time to reach us. Are you prepared for the risks involved?"

She lifted her chin. A funny butterfly in her stomach told her of the present fear.

"I am," she insisted.

"They will take your wand and anything else they consider a weapon." He nodded to the ebony wand. "Appear reluctant to give up said items, but do not overact. You want Braun. You very much like the idea of bedding him and spiting your overbearing father. Show a bit of fire."

"Not submission?" Astoria inquired.

Green eyes narrowed. "He likes them very young and pure-blooded. I did not say he liked them submissive. He will be aroused at your feistiness… as most… _predators_ like to exert their dominance sexually on equally dominant targets."

Something shifted in his tone as his eyes became half-lidded. As the Dark Lord stood from his chair, an amused smirk to his lips, Astoria felt as if she were missing something. And she hoped it wasn't what she _thought_ it was. That would be… that would be… incredibly captivating. However, she knew the rest of Riddle's attention-starved followers would not feel the same.

"Are you ready?"

Astoria looked at the offered hand.

"How are you going to keep an eye on her, _Potter_?" Malfoy hissed as soon as Astoria touched his hand. "You said this establishmentis for pure-bloods and the elite. You have dirty blood."

If it were anyone else, they would have been insulted.

_Custos_ merely quirked a brow. "I have my ways."

**. . & Darkness . .**

Harry knew tonight would not be the night.

He'd considered the possibility that Braun would not bite at the pretty package that was Astoria Greengrass. And it truly was a pretty package, if Harry had any say in the matter. Her features were bright with youth, sharp with noble blood, and fair enough to put many pure-blood families to shame.

Yet, she was as nervous as a virgin right before their first fuck.

Harry slid a flaming shot glass down the bar. The eye-catching drink stopped right in front of her, startling her from her reprieve. She looked at him, her eyes widening comically at his smartly dressed figure and articulately parted hair. It was, after all, the first time she'd spotted him tonight.

"It's for the nerves," he called softly.

"Is it that obvious?" she whispered, too frightened of others to overhear in this establishment. Her pale eyes looked at the drink before settling back on Harry. "You look ridiculously handsome, Po—"

She cut herself off, looking away.

He sighed, watching her profile. Perhaps it had been a mistake to use this particular girl. Nevertheless, during the duel with Zabini, he'd looked at her with Braun's eyes, identifying a child that was particular to his expensive tastes. She had fire. He knew that. Perhaps the flame was buried too far deep to truly _breathe._

He stood up gracefully, earning her quick observation. It did not slip his mind that the Dark Lord and his two sidekicks were huddled around an observing charm, watching everything that Greengrass so much glanced at. My, my, he could truly fuck with Malfoy from a distance, couldn't he?

Well, he was never one to pass on an opportunity.

Harry sat on the stool next to her, staring at the endless bottles behind the bar. "No one _cares_ to identify people in this place, Greengrass. No one _wants_ to identify in this place. You are far too paranoid. Relax." He curled a hand around her shot glass and raised it to his lips. He blew on the flame, extinguishing it. "Drink."

He set it back down in front of her.

Astoria seemed hesitant at first before she took hold of the shot glass and bloody _sipped_ at it. Harry snickered, amused despite himself.

She spluttered on what little she took. "This is horrendous."

Harry took captive of the shot glass and tipped it back. He slammed it back on the bar and motioned for the bartender to head their way. "Another two rounds." He then looked at his female companion. "Better make it something fruity for _her_."

The chestnut-haired bartender nodded and scampered off to prepare something for Greengrass.

"I failed, didn't I?" Greengrass muttered. "You wouldn't be sitting next to me like this if there was still a chance."

"No," Harry confirmed, glancing over his shoulder. "It seems as if our… mutual friend is otherwise preoccupied with someone else tonight." He took in the dark-haired girl next to the powerful politician. "No worries, his eyes did linger a few times."

"Then why are we still here?" she demanded. "It's pointless—"

"First two rounds are on me," the bartender informed with a meaningful and long look at Harry's figure.

_Ah_. Harry ran his own eyes over the length of the bartender, though for different reasons. The man's emotions were purely animalistic and not at all deceiving. He admired the man's figure and appearance, before winking. "Thank you, love." His eyes lingered on the man's arse as he turned to serve another customer.

Greengrass seemed flabbergasted at the exchange, which only served to amuse Harry further.

"Why are we still here?" Harry repeated her question from earlier. "Because I would never pass up on the opportunity to drink with a pretty woman." He turned to her and her ridiculous pink drink. She seemed hesitant to drink the cocktail.

"Something tells me that's a load of bullocks," she countered. "You don't seem the type to socialize any more than absolutely necessary."

"Touché," Harry agreed darkly. "Though, to be fair, you don't seem the type to bend to Malfoy's whims." He smirked at her stiffening figure. "You are definitely not his type. Far too pretty and you're missing a…" he trailed off and waved a hand above her lap. "A specific male anatomy between your legs."

"Excuse me?" she hissed, intensifying her glare. "What does that mean?"

She was offended, suspicious, and horrified, all emotions Harry could handle opposed to the pure _filth_ of this entire place. Too many dark corners spawned evil and corruption here. It was nearly refreshing to be around Greengrass' naïve, yet cultured emotions.

"Just that Malfoy has been shagging Cormac McLaggen," Harry informed casually.

He turned his cheek on her, truly surprised when raw grief and horror swept across her features. She truly hadn't known, and for some reason, she was devastated by the revelation.

"Does Ginny Weasley know you're screwing the Dark Lord?" Greengrass countered, her tone dripping with acid.

She wanted to hurt him, just as his words had hurt her.

Harry stiffened marginally and stared at his drink. The thought never occurred to him before, all those times Riddle and he fooled around… but Greengrass was right. He was still in a relationship with Ginny. Anything he did behind her back was, technically, infidelity, and not something he ever wanted to do to her.

He was somewhat of a monster, but he did draw the line occasionally.

Harry tipped back his drink after smelling for any tampering. He turned to her, smiling darkly. "While you are very wrong in that accusation, Greengrass, I do like that _fire_. So… why don't you take that fire and use it to attract our friend, hm?" He grabbed the second shot. "After all, when was the last time a pure-blood witch sat solitarily at the bar? You are entirely unconvincing."

"I- I apologize. That was rude."

"Yes," Harry agreed, "but let's see more of it."

Her pale eyes watched him closely, looking for evidence she'd insulted him. She wouldn't find any. Harry was not insulted, just frustrated with himself. There were times he was with Riddle and nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. He loved Ginny, just not in the way she wished. He didn't want to hurt her.

It was time to end it. Her trip to Portugal would end things on their own, however. He just needed to wait a few more days.

"I really despised you growing up. All the Slytherins did," Greengrass continued. "You were… dorky, but cute. Entirely Gryffindor. All the teachers loved you. You were _so_ perfect. Everything you did, just like the rest of your family, was impeccable and holy. You could do no wrong."

He smiled twistedly and motioned for another shot. He did not plan to get drunk. He wouldn't. It would dull his senses too much and bring back all _those_ memories with startling clarity. But he needed a relaxer.

"I don't know what happened to you, Potter, but it must have been catastrophic." Astoria looked down at her drink and sipped at it. "Whatever it was, even if it was panful for you, it turned you into someone that I really respect and admire."

The confession took him off guard. He busied himself with accepting another shot of whiskey. He couldn't care a less what Greengrass believed, but it was surprising to hear that she _admired_ him. It wasn't unheard of for the public to support _Custos'_ work and support his deeds. It was surprising, however, for a pure-blood, who knew his identity, and was a part of Riddle's cult, to support his work.

Barty Crouch Junior aside.

She, at least, was sane.

"I wish I could be like you," Greengrass confessed quietly, yet firmly.

He was not one to participate in emotion-filled confessions. He was already uncomfortable with their line of conversation, especially because he knew they had an audience. Nonetheless, he had acknowledged Greengrass' spirit and her insistence to keep it buried. If she idolized him, perhaps he could use it to his own advantage and construct her into the image he imagined her to become.

"You don't want to be like me," Harry informed dryly. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, smiling bitterly. "You just need to be more like _yourself_. Those impulses you feel? Act on them. Perhaps then, you may be more inclined to admire yourself versus a heartless serial killer, no?"

He stood up after taking one last, blissful drink.

"Get back to the Portkey, Greengrass. We will resume this tomorrow night."

**. . Collide . .**

Lucius Malfoy and her father were beyond furious with Potter when they'd returned two nights ago. Astoria hadn't revealed what she truly thought of Potter's revelations regarding Draco's… wandering prick. She hadn't acted on her instincts and resumed her role as the compliant, pure-blooded daughter.

Inside, though, she mulled over Potter's words, constantly fueled by his dominating presence. He truly was a spectacle. He didn't even _try,_ but Astoria still found herself breathless whenever his proximity closed in on her.

Something ignited within her after their interaction on that first night. Since then, during their outings in Germany, Astoria went out of her way to be a prevailing figure. She courted with those slimy and hideous creatures. She danced with men whom she would be too embarrassed to do otherwise. She drank, she flirted, and shined beautifully.

On the third night, after a whispered suggestion from a stranger, Astoria found herself in a dark carriage that led to Braun's home. She hadn't even interacted with the politician, yet she'd been more aware of his close and lustful observation tonight and last night. One of his men had approached her at the tavern and pointed him out, asking if she wanted to meet the man personally.

She'd said yes, and then she found herself ushered through the crowd by a faceless man and shown to a dark carriage.

Potter hadn't shone his face at all tonight.

Astoria fiddled with her necklace, nonchalantly looking out the window. She hoped _Custos_ was nearby. What if he hadn't seen her hasty retreat? What if Braun's men were so good that even _Custos_ hadn't witnessed her departure?

Her blood turned cold at the mere thought.

She had to remember her father and the Dark Lord were watching through her eyes. If anything happened, they would be there quickly. Unfortunately, she also remembered Potter explicitly saying that Braun's wards were virtually impossible to break.

Astoria released a low breath as the carriage stopped.

She knew Potter thrived off stealth, but it would have been nice to have a _sign_ that he was on their tail.

A man opened the carriage door, his face expressionless as he assisted her down the steps. Over his shoulder, a solitary mansion stood. The home was very large and nearly transparent with the number of windows. It was secluded amongst the trees, yet close enough to the city center. It was modern and not to Astoria's tastes.

She kept her own expression schooled as she approached the entrance. Underneath the lightened pergola, two men in dark suits waited. As soon as she came within distance, they waved their wands over her, checking her for glamours or anything considered a weapon, just as Potter said they would.

She waited impatiently, her façade oblivious and righteous. They would think her a snotty pure-blood, eager to spite her father and lay with one of the most powerful men in Germany. Astoria wondered how many girls had been in her position previously. It was almost pathetic how easily Potter could predict Braun's behavior.

As their wands zeroed in on her ears, they paused, looking at each other. An amused smirk happened across one of the men's lips before he instructed, "The earrings. Take them off—"

"They were a gift from my father," Astoria interrupted conceitedly. "Heirlooms. I will not remove them."

"If you want to see Undersecretary Braun, then you will remove them."

Astoria remained silent and motionless. She tried to spy Braun over their shoulders and into the home, but the politician remained obscure. As she glanced at the trees surrounding the mansion, _Custos_ was just as elusive. She felt utterly alone, yet she refused to slack off on her performance.

"Will you assure me of their return once I leave here?" she inquired, making a move to remove the earrings.

The guards shared a look before motioning to the wand up her sleeve. "You will get them back. Just as you will get your wand back." The guard in charge had dark skin and a very thick German accent. "For security reasons, you understand."

"I understand, though I do not agree." She removed the earrings, handing them over to the guard.

However, she paused in handing over her faux wand. Potter said to appear reluctant, but not overact. She took one, long deliberating glance at the guard before handing it over, allowing her expression to break for just a second. He would see hesitation and worry, though he couldn't possibly realize she was conspiring with a serial killer.

"Right this way, miss."

With one last glance at her wand, Astoria followed another man past the thrumming wards. Suddenly, the small stud Potter implanted in her earlobe seared with pain and it took a great deal of restraint on Astoria's part not to gasp aloud. She pressed her lips together and clenched her hands, willing them not to rub at the sensitive area.

She wondered if _Custos_ was inside the wards now. She wondered if her ear was bleeding. She wondered how long it would take Potter to slit Braun's throat. She just wanted to get out of _here_.

As they entered the home and up a set of stairs, Astoria stifled her racing mind. Her eyes swept across the home, noticing the dim ambiance and the smell of arousing fragrances. The incenses throughout the home robbed her mind of her senses and replaced them with a haze of lust. Astoria felt calmer, nearly disorientated.

If Potter hadn't warned her before about the monster she'd face, she would have been eager at the wetness between her legs and the pure depravity of it all.

She knew who Braun was, as did most educated young adults. He was powerful, commanding, and rather… attractive. His power was attractive, just as Riddle's power. Though Astoria did not know if Braun possessed the same magical power as Riddle, he certainly possessed the political power.

Astoria's heels struck the marble floor as the guard led her across the parlor and into a comfortable seating area. It was wide open, very different from the old-English architecture in Britain. Huge windows looked out into the black night and Astoria wondered if Braun had men outside looking in.

Would Potter know about them?

" _Ah,_ there you are."

As Astoria entered, a dark figure stood from his leather chair. The purple and indigo flames from the enchanted fireplace reflected off the majority of the marbled room. White and grey granite stretched across the floors, and where the glass windows ended, marble climbed the walls and towards the high ceiling.

Silver and white ordainments decorated the room and diamond-studded accessories dotted throughout. A white, fur rug lay in front of the fire where a bottle of champagne and two, long-stemmed glasses waited.

Astoria swallowed past the fear and the mind-numbing incenses. "Undersecretary Braun," she breathed with reverence. "I am truly honored to make your acquaintance. I have heard nothing but high regard in your name."

"Please, call me Wilhelm." He approached her, a tall man with broad shoulders and perfect posture. His cruel, silver eyes somehow seemed softer as he looked upon her with appreciation. "And the name of my gorgeous company this evening?"

Despite being older than her father, Astoria found him very handsome.

She folded her hand into his weathered palm. "Astoria Greengrass."

Potter confirmed it would be impossible for her identity to get out. Not only had _Braun_ delivered her here in secret, but Braun's men would also remain ignorant to her identity. If they looked for identifying fingerprints around the home, they'd come up empty-handed. Astoria didn't know how Potter could be so sure Braun's men would look the other way to her presence tonight.

Did he intend to kill those who had seen her?

But that would go against his principles.

Braun kissed her knuckles and even bowed at the waist. A perfect gentleman.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He pulled slightly at her hand, escorting her towards the fire and the champagne. "I do hope you are not overwhelmed by such an intimate setting. I find the tavern very entertaining, but not an appropriate place to get to know such a breathtaking young woman."

_Child, you mean,_ Astoria thought to herself.

She smiled. "I think this is a nice change of atmosphere."

He motioned to the couch in front of the chocolate-covered fruits and the meat and cheese. Surprisingly, he omitted the gentleman act and sat directly next to her, pressing their knees together. She did not react negatively, only simpered under his intense, hungry observation. She wondered if Potter felt this way under Riddle's stare.

Then again, knowing him, he probably returned it just as intensely.

"Greengrass is native to Britain, a very old family." Braun reached for the champagne glasses and handed her one. "What is a young Brit doing all the way in Germany?"

"To be honest? I'm acting a bit immature," she responded easily, accepting the alcohol. "I'm—"

Over Braun's shoulder, she spotted Potter. _Custos_ was a mere shadow as he approached the guard standing solitarily at the door to the parlor. A leather-gloved hand curled over the guard's mouth before another hand stabbed him in the neck with a syringe. It happened so fast and so silently, Astoria quickly recovered.

"… running from my problems like all irrational adults do." She sipped at the champagne, though her hand trembled slightly. "My father agreed to an arranged marriage without my consent."

Braun's eyebrows rose, though he did not seem surprised. "I find the old traditions in the British, pure-blood society archaic." He smiled thinly. "Who is the lucky suitor?"

"Malfoy."

This time, Braun did appear surprised. "Malfoy, a very recognizable name here. That family follows Tom Riddle quite closely."

The way he said _Riddle_ sent an alarmed shock down Astoria's spine. The man clearly did not like Riddle. "Very close," she confirmed stiffly, sipping her champagne. "I am not very supportive of Riddle's regime in the Ministry. He has done little…" she trailed off, watching as Braun's expression changed.

He appeared as if he were listening to something other than Astoria.

Expression darkening, he set down his glass and roughly massaged Astoria's knee. "You have a lovely body, one I will devour thoroughly once we cut to the chase." His calloused fingers inched past the hem of her dress and cruelly found her inner thigh. "Let's see Riddle's man, hm?"

"I- excuse _me_?"

"Your partner in crime." He held down her leg, preventing her from rising. "Was it that handsome little thing sitting next to you from two nights ago? I tried looking for him again, though he's a shy one." His eyes turned hard. "Handsome and clever. He single-handedly dismantled my security from the inside out. He's completely warped my wards to his favor."

Her pulse raced.

What had Potter _done?_ How had Braun known? What had he been listening to earlier? Had the wards somehow conveyed the danger?

Astoria gave a cry as he grabbed her hair and hoisted her up off the couch. He drew his wand, keeping it leveled with her throat. She trembled as he used her as a human shield.

Across the room, Potter stood.

He remained motionless, his features obscured by a deep hood. His cloak fell to his knees, accentuating his tall and lithe frame. The only thing visible on Potter's features was a small, cynical smile. Though he was on Astoria's side, the sight chilled her and left her uncertain.

Braun could disapparate in seconds, bringing her with him. Why was Potter just standing _still_?

"Tell me, boy, what piece are you in Riddle's collection?" Braun did not sound like a cornered animal. If anything, he seemed amused, so sure of himself. " _She's_ a pawn." He tightened his hold on Astoria. "I hardly think you're on the same level. More than a knight too… a rook? A queen? Though I find it hard to believe Riddle would send his queen into the enemy's territory, though it _is_ flattering to think so."

Potter cocked his head before reaching up and lowering his hood. "And what do you purpose to counter with? All your pawns are eliminated from this game."

Green eyes were entirely predatory as they watched Braun. Astoria could hardly recognize the man who sat with her at the bar two nights ago. He was frightening and every bit the hunter the public made him out to be. Would he even care about her safety? For a moment, she wondered why she'd even trusted him in the first place, why her _father_ trusted him.

He was not loyal to the Dark Lord. He would have no regrets if she died.

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted.

"You may have locked down my wards and eliminated my men, but let me introduce you to _my_ queen piece."

Unexpectedly, Braun's shadow deepened before taking shape. Astoria's eyes widened as the shadow stepped away from Braun and took on a life of its own. A man, with long black hair stood next to her, his attention directed on Potter and only Potter. In his hands, he held a long, gleaming sword.

"Riddle cannot be here, unfortunately." Braun took another step back before melding into the far wall. "But let's see a _friendly_ duel between Braun and Riddle by proxy. Who will be the victor?"

As soon as the taunt sounded, Braun's man charged.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Grammar mistakes, shorter chapter, minor character death, gore, an overall dark chapter. This story kind of got away from what I had planned initially… sigh. It was a bit challenging to write, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

**19\. Chapter Nineteen**

" _I want you to know something, Harry."_

_His eyelashes fluttered at the sound of his mother's voice. She spoke to him through the wall, a flimsy barrier designed to separate them, but allow the sounds of terror to penetrate. His head was pounding, searing, yet her voice sharpened his senses._

" _I was a part of something that I… I shouldn't have been a part of." Lily inhaled shakily. "I realized too late that my actions were immoral."_

_Her guilt was his guilt. Her remorse was potent as it was painful. Harry grimaced at her strong emotions, realizing he would never find relief from constantly_ feeling. _It was too much, and over time, experiencing such inebriating emotions from his parents, from his captors, had loosened something completely in his mind. He knew. He felt it. He could never reobtain the sliver of sanity he'd lost._

_He reached over and splayed a hand against the wall. He imagined her head leaning against the wall on the other side, her dark auburn locks greasy and limp._

" _At least you realized it in the end."_

_Silence met his statement. At first, he thought she passed out, but her voice sounded once more._

" _There are so many people who suffer. So many that are defenseless." Her voice tapered off at the end, as if she were close to tears. "When you get out of here, I want you to be that boy we raised you to be. You can change the world, my son. You can help those who are too powerless to do anything themselves. You have such a pure soul."_

_Green eyes slid closed and a twisted smile crossed his lips. His mother still held a light for people, even after all of this._

_How could he embark on his mother's plea when he scorned all of humanity?_

**. . Dreams . .**

Harry wanted to warn Astoria about many things.

_Don't let Braun out of your sights, keep your back against the wall, don't intervene with the confrontation, and above all else, don't try to Disapparate out of the manor._ The wards were in constant flux. One moment they favored their owner, the next, they blindly followed Harry's careful manipulation.

Once inside the manor, Harry knocked all the guards unconscious with a potion that would cause amnesia. That left little time to toy with the wards. He hadn't been able to unravel Braun's influence. He'd only added another layer to the wards; preventing _anyone_ from Disapparating. He anticipated Braun would run if the situation tipped in Harry's favor, and he wouldn't allow that.

Unfortunately, that also meant that Astoria and he couldn't Disapparate if the situation tipped in _Braun's_ favor.

It didn't necessarily _surprise_ him that Braun had more up his sleeve. It would have been extremely disappointing if Harry had predicted everything.

Nevertheless, this… this was something else.

There were rituals that would ensure permanent protection. Dark rituals. Harry just hadn't seen it executed before.

The man that emerged from Braun's shadow wasn't a vampire, a demon, or a werewolf. It was too slow. Braun's _queen_ could have been a hybrid of sorts, most likely part demon if his shadow travel was anything to go by. He was also void of any emotions, ascertaining that Harry would not be able to use his Empathy ability.

Demons were nearly impossible to kill. However, if Harry wounded it enough, it would need to retreat to hell and lick his wounds. Aside from consuming souls and creating contracts, a demon, especially a _half-demon_ , valued his strength and immortality above all else.

As the queen approached, the sword in his hand glowed brilliantly.

Harry rocked to the balls of his feet, springing forward as a jet of magic shot from the sword. _Bloody hell._ Trust the queen to carry both a magical and Muggle weapon. Harry didn't have anything quite so sophisticated and he was immediately envious.

He jumped onto the coffee table, and as soon as the piece of furniture exploded, he leaped on top the couch. Through the explosion of splinters, Harry slid his wand into his holster and grabbed his magical dagger. He twirled it around in his palm and it magically extended into an indestructible staff.

Leaping through the air, he raised the staff just as the queen slashed his sword. They collided. Blocking the sword attack, Harry used the momentum to flip over the demon's head. As he landed on the floor, he ducked underneath another foray and jabbed the end of his staff into the queen's ribs. The demon gasped for breath and Harry slammed his foot into his opponent's kneecap.

He stumbled back and Harry swung his staff, aiming for the side of the demon's face. It caught the entity clearly across the temple, causing his opponent to blink dazedly. Harry then fisted both ends of the staff and thrust it upward, right underneath the demon's jaw. An audible _crack_ filled the room and the queen's eyes widened before brightening with fury.

The demon's sword flashed and Harry hissed as electricity surged through his body. He shuddered and shook, his hair standing on end. It took a great deal of strength to lift his fingers and release his staff, but when he did, the electrocution stopped.

He jumped backward as the sword slashed through the air. The tip of the blade just teased the outside of his cloak.

" _Look out!_ "

Astoria's warning came seconds after Harry noticed the jet of green light coming from Braun.

He executed a backflip, just avoiding the Killing Curse and the sword. Landing poised and defenseless, Harry looked for his opening. If he stayed close to the demon, Braun would hesitate to cast any more Killing Curses, however, that also brought him closer to the sword.

He had to disarm the queen.

Dancing and feinting, Harry avoided the furious sword assaults and managed to dodge all magical attacks from Braun and the queen. He was in his element. Moving unhindered helped his agility, enabling him to execute far more maneuvers than he would if he were armed. Still, it was vital to get his hands on a weapon. His fake wand was temperamental. He would make a fool of himself if he were to duel Braun's guard.

Unfortunately, his staff remained abandoned across the room and it was unlikely he would gain repossession of it.

" _Harry_!"

As he landed in a crouch, he saw Braun leave the room, dragging Astoria by the hair. Either the German Undersecretary thought the queen would successfully eliminate Harry, or he figured now was a good enough time as any to escape. The dirty politician would keep Astoria alive and use her completely just to spite Riddle, Malfoy, and Greengrass.

This was on Harry. He'd used her for this. Braun would relocate to a safe location away from Riddle's reach and fuck her. Use her. Abuse her. Pawn her off to men. Over and over again.

" _No! Please, stop! Please!"_

Green eyes widened as he heard his mother, felt his mother. He saw her surrounded by a group of men, felt their hands on her, felt their hands on _him._ The complete and utter hopelessness and lack of control…

" _I'm so sorry you had to feel that, Harry."_

The blade cut his upper arm and Harry collapsed bonelessly to the ground. He hissed as magic took a hold of him and threw him across the room. His back hit the large window and the glass cracked on impact. The sound of slowly splintering glass echoed across the silent room, interrupted only by Harry's heavy breathing.

An invisible force held him against the window. Unknowns to the demon, Harry's pulse surged and his eyes dilated. At his sides, his fingers trembled with an uncontrollable surge of adrenaline. Every second he wasted on this abomination, Braun got further away with Astoria.

"Braun wants to keep you alive," the demon informed. "Though I see no reason to—"

Harry tore his leg away from the invisible force and slammed the toe of his boot into the demon's face. Around him, his wandless magic crackled. Using the wand up his sleeve, Harry managed to remove himself from the wall. He quickly cast a Sticking Charm around the demon's feet, preventing the man free range.

He dodged around the sword, punching and kicking the lithe body whenever he had the opportunity to catch the queen off-guard. He waited patiently, knowing the demon would easily break through his Sticking Charm.

And just like that, the demon tore through Harry's flimsy charm.

Had Harry not been prepared for the anger-induced strike, he would have been on the ground with a hole through his chest. Fortunately, he was prepared. With quick reflexes, he followed the path of the sword before swiftly maneuvering on his heels and spinning alongside the demon. He grabbed the wrist that held the sword and manipulated the momentum to his favor.

The sword continued its downward path, but instead of striking the area Harry once stood, it curved further down. With a wet, sickly sound, the blade imbedded in the demon's stomach. Warm blood soaked Harry's leather glove and he looked into the entity's dark eyes. If he had his dagger, he would have slit the man's throat with his opposite hand.

He smiled cruelly, watching the shock dance across the demon's face.

"What are you?" the demon hissed.

Harry lifted his holstered wand. "Your killer if you don't leave _now_."

Eyelids lowered to consider Harry closely. With a hand pressed against his bleeding stomach, the demon lifted a lip. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, child. Braun and I are merely a smokescreen." And without another word, the demon's body began to disappear.

Once he made certain Braun's soldier was truly gone, Harry turned his heel and marched across the room. As soon as he grabbed his fallen staff, he twirled it, satisfied when it morphed back into his dagger. His eyes sharpened and carefully observed his surroundings as he left the room. Prowling quietly down the corridor, he listened, felt, smelt… anything and everything that would lead him to his prey.

A few forms skittered in and out of his line of sight and he sighed.

The potion was wearing off on Braun's bodyguards.

A true, bloody mess.

"Fuck," Harry hissed.

He tightened his grip on his dagger. There'd been a reason why Harry asked Astoria to use her true identity. For one, Braun's wards would not have let her inside if she'd worn any glamours or consumed any sort of Polyjuice. Harry had been too confident in his plan of wiping the bodyguard's memories clean to consider a backup plan. He assumed they'd be unconscious long enough for Astoria to escape back to Britain.

The authorities would easily break the _Obliviate_ if he tried wiping their memories.

Too many loose ends. Too many mistakes. Too many laps of judgements.

Harry cursed again as he rounded upon an oblivious guard, his chest heavy.

He had to get to Astoria.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Astoria tried to stop her legs from shaking, but it was useless. Sweat, foul-smelling sweat, claimed the entirety of her body and soaked her dress. She was utterly afraid. The man gripping her was a monster, so foul and so evil. She'd never been exposed to something so unpleasant that it made her tremble uncontrollably.

Unexpectedly, across the room, the guard at the door dropped to his knees.

Her eyes widened as the man's face turned a sickly ashen. Urine stained the outside of his trousers and his eyes bulged almost comically from his skull. The wizard appeared just as frightened as Astoria, only feeling it with so much more intensity. Trembling, the guard screamed. Astoria fretfully strained her eyes, looking all over for the cause of his naked horror. Besides the man holding her, she didn't understand the root of his fear.

And then she saw the true power of Harry Potter.

She'd already admired his feline-like grace during the duel with Braun's personal guard. She'd never seen anything quite like Potter before, especially in the fluid way he _moved_. So unlike the stiff wizards and their magical dueling. He relied on his body and it was evident that he excelled in the art.

But _this_ … this was another side to the serial killer. This was raw, wild _power_ ; a power Astoria recognized as something most never saw, never knew, but something the Dark Lord instantly identified in Potter.

She realized now that this man in front of her was why the Dark Lord was so fascinated.

Despite the shoulder wound, Potter glided powerfully around the corner and into the room. His hand rose toward the guard on the floor, as if _he_ were to blame for the man's unbridled fear. Judging from Braun's tightening hold; the German came to the same conclusion as Astoria.

Somehow, Potter _was_ responsible for the wizard's unexplainable fear.

Saliva poured from the man's mouth as he trembled violently on the ground. As Potter's boots stopped inches from the man's clenching hands, the trembling stopped suddenly. The guard's eyes remained wide, but unseeing and empty. Slowly, the wizard raised his wand and pointed it at his throat. And just like that, with a palpable air of defeat, he intoned the Killing Curse onto himself.

Astoria lost use of her legs and slumped in shock, oxygen leaving her lungs.

It was like an unspoken _Imperio,_ only more chaotic, more disturbing.

Cold green eyes turned in her direction and Astoria tried to remind herself that Potter was on her side. "Trust a man like yourself to have a surprisingly strong Occlumency shield during his time in need," Potter whispered, coldly amused. "Surprisingly, you didn't possess this Occlumency shield earlier. How is that?"

Braun dragged Astoria further back, toward the doorway. She closed her eyes as the man's wand dug further into her throat. He was afraid, especially after the recent suicide of his bodyguard, but he was still in control. Potter did not know what waited for him here, in the shadows. Astoria didn't know whether she would live or die, but she knew Braun had another trick up his sleeve.

One that would play on _Custos'_ morals.

"Riddle is pulling your strings," Braun informed. "You have no idea what game you're playing."

Potter raised an eyebrow. "You asked what piece I was in Riddle's collection." He twirled the dagger in his palm, the blade glittering maliciously. "I'd like to think I'm playing my own game with my own rules. And _you,_ Undersecretary Braun, are _my_ target. Riddle plays no part."

"And unfortunately for you, I don't intend to play by your rules either." Braun chuckled and ethereal figures began to emerge from the shadows. "There is something deeply satisfying about trapping a predator in his own trap, especially when it's on _my_ turf."

Somehow, Potter already _sensed_ their presence. Earlier in the conversation, Astoria watched him stiffen and cast subtle looks into the darkness. Somehow, he'd _known_ they were there. Yet, as they emerged fully from the shadows, Potter still flinched as if taken completely off-guard.

Astoria couldn't blame him.

She'd seen them before, when Braun dragged her downstairs and into this hidden room. However, seeing them again intensified her fear and her hate for the man holding her as a shield.

There were eleven of them. Young, around Astoria's age, some even younger. Their faces were gaunt and void of emotion as they stepped into the light. Empty eyes stared straight ahead as they held a knife to their own throats. Most of them were blonde, the majority female, and two were heavy with child. They were all dressed in white sleeping gowns, all properly groomed and painted, like porcelain dolls.

Astoria openly wept at their fates.

Potter's face turned neutral, a far cry from the dark, sinister taunting he'd used earlier.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered to Braun. "You worship those who possess pure blood."

"I also value my life above all others." Braun opened the door behind him, letting the cold air rush inside. "You see, it's not just my _life_ at stake. If you kill me, you destroy what little resistance there is against Riddle. There is far more than meets the eye, boy. You've walked into this situation blind."

Potter's nostrils flared at the insult and he held up his dagger and hands in a gesture of surrender. "The only fault of mine is underestimating how truly warped you are."

"You will slid your dagger and wand across the floor to me." Braun motioned to the children. "They will kill themselves if I so much _think_ it. It's your choice. Kill me and kill all these pure-blooded children, or let me go and they live."

Astoria tried to muffle her sob, though she didn't succeed. She could see a turmoil in Potter's eyes that made her heart ache.

"You'll just kill them anyway," Potter murmured. "They are incriminating evidence. You'd never let them walk and tarnish your name."

Behind her, Braun shifted and his tone came out nonchalant. He held all the cards, after all. "Are you willing to take that chance?" He was a monster as he taunted Potter. "Just as I can kill on thought, I can also wipe their minds clean. But I suppose you have to take that risk."

Green eyes considered the group of pure-blood captives before looking at Astoria. She trembled. Any other wizard in the Dark Lord's league wouldn't have hesitated. They would have killed Braun immediately, perhaps even killing Astoria in order to get to him. Even if the sacrificial lambs _were_ pure-bloods, they were not the target.

The target was most vital.

Potter surprised her by crouching down and tossing over his dagger and wand. They clattered near Astoria's feet, hard evidence of the goodness Potter still possessed. He wanted to save those children, she knew, just as he wanted to help anyone who was in need. He could have easily killed Braun, but in doing so, he would have damned all the innocent lives.

Hers included.

Most Dark Wizards wouldn't care a less.

Braun forced Astoria on her knees and he followed her to the ground. Under the watchful eye of Potter, Braun took possession of the wand and dagger. "Good man. Good choice." He must have completely overlooked Potter's unrelenting stare. Astoria didn't know how he managed. It was entirely unnerving. "You've proven you aren't a pawn to Riddle, but your own man. You can have her back."

Hands pushed Astoria and she stumbled forward, groping ungracefully for stability. Potter grabbed her around the shoulders, pulling her to his side. Like a fool, she pressed into him, placing her face into the crook of his shoulder and absorbing his strength. Her body shook madly, yet somehow, his protection steadied her.

In the distance, she heard Braun shuffle out of the room. He must have had a tunnel of sorts, somewhere leading to outside, past the complicated wards. She wondered if her father was outside. Maybe the Dark Lord sent a few followers for backup when things had turned sour. She felt pity for Potter, simply because he _was_ capable, but she kept getting in the way.

The arms left her and Astoria forced herself to stand tall. She watched as Potter approached one of the pure-blood captives. He reached out and grabbed the knife against her throat, forcing the weapon away from her death grip.

Astoria stared.

She stood shell-shocked as Potter threw down the knife and went to the next victim.

He completely disregarded Braun's retreat in favor of saving those damned and tarnished souls.

"Astoria!" Potter yelled impatiently. "Help me. Get the knives—"

Blood sprayed Potter's face as the girl across from him slit her throat. Around them, the others followed suit and dropped simultaneously to the ground. The only girl without a knife sprang forward, nearly knocking Astoria to the ground in order to grab the discarded knife. Astoria wailed as she wrestled with the frail girl, desperately trying to reach the knife first.

As if possessing superhuman strength, the child elbowed Astoria in the face and dived for the knife, eagerly slitting her throat as soon as she was able. Astoria's hands groped desperately at the girl, her fingers becoming slick with blood.

She stared in horror at the vivid crimson on her hands. It was so excessive. So warm.

Her hands shook madly as she released the child's nightgown. Like a ragdoll, the girl slumped to the ground, choking once before the light left her eyes. Astoria couldn't breathe. Her breaths came out ragged, strained, her entire body hot and burning. Blood pooled on the ground and reached for her fallen form with malevolent glee.

And then she started bawling. Or screaming. Something horrible came out of her mouth as she clutched her face. An emotion, so dark she wasn't familiar with, engulfed her body and made her sick with horror.

Through her fingers, she stared at the children. They slumped over each other, all in a pile, like discarded dolls. Their faces were unrestful, even in death. Cold air rushed into the basement from outside, cooling the room that was once smoldering with tension and warm blood. Amongst the pile of children, Potter stood solitarily.

Astoria's cries continued, but she watched him through her tears and snot.

A lone boy struggled in his last moments of life. His fingers gripped his shirt in pain, in shock, and his expression was drawn tightly. Potter stared down at him before kneeling in the thick, crimson liquid. He reached for the boy and pressed two fingers against the crown of his head. Almost immediately, the boy's face relaxed and a sense of wonder washed over his expression.

Frail and weak fingers curled around Potter's wrist, holding him in place.

Astoria cried harder and buried her face firmly into her hands, not wanting to see anymore.

Some time passed before a hand settled on top her head. The sickly horror and depression eating away at her soul slowly waned. Astoria's eyes widened into her hands when her sobs died down. Hope, and a brief and light flicker of serenity, ignited in her stomach and engulfed her chest.

As much as she knew she should be feeling the darkness, she couldn't possibly muster any tears, any fear.

By the time she raised her head, Potter was nowhere in sight. She still felt the weight of his hand on her head, however. Knowing it was futile, but needing to confirm its absence, Astoria reached up and touched the top of her head. Nothing was there, just as she'd figured. Nevertheless, the optimism was still there, the sad and mournful tranquility still alight within her.

Her father and his colleges found her sitting silently amongst the mass grave some minutes later.

**. . Collide . .**

Fool.

It was all his fault.

Harry stumbled through the woods and raked his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots and trembling madly. He dropped to the ground as grief and madness overtook him. Knowing he was alone, he allowed the vulnerability to show.

Those children…

When he'd confronted Braun in the basement, he had sensed only a flicker of abnormality. In the shadows, he'd expected another half-demon lurking. Much to his surprise, Braun's collection of pure-blood children appeared. He'd known about their existence, but he hadn't expected to see them hidden away at Braun's manor.

Their emotions all felt the same. The same mind-numbing obedience and the same false loyalty. It was like a web, a web that linked them all together and melded them into a single, porcelain army.

Yet, as soon as they drew back the knife and slit their throats, the web had snapped and their emotions assaulted him ferociously. They felt fear, uncertainty, confusion, horror, pain, and what truly saddened Harry, some even felt relieved that their hell was over. He knew that particular emotion all too well. He never wanted to feel it again, but he had tonight with startling intensity.

He shuddered and pressed his palms into his eyes.

The trees and the snow fell away and he was back in his own personal hell.

"No."

Harry opened his eyes and stood up. Now was not the time to break down.

He braced his hand against the tree bark and steadied himself. Reluctantly, he used the breathing technique Riddle taught him while clearing his mind simultaneously. It didn't help to think about Riddle. The Dark Lord would be dissatisfied. The man had _seen_ the pathetic debacle through Astoria's eyes.

But then Harry mulled over what Braun and his demon had said. Perhaps they were right in the sense that Harry was entirely ignorant to Riddle's intentions and _their_ own involvement. At the time of the assignment, Harry hadn't really cared what the political motive was behind the assassination. All he'd seen was Braun and his immoral deeds.

It had been enough for Harry. It still _was._

Nonetheless, this was different from his other targets.

This was a lot bigger.

Perhaps it was time to delve into Riddle's political intentions. However, before Harry went too far, he had to remember that Riddle still owed him the identity of his parents' tormentors. It had been far too long since they followed up on their last lead. It was time to speed up that particular aspect of their _relationship_ before Harry burned any bridges _._

One thing was for certain. Tom Riddle wasn't as inactive as Harry originally believed.

Moreover, Braun wasn't as untouchable as he wanted to think.

He owed it to those children to finish what he started. He couldn't possibly _think_ of sleeping or resting until he felt the life leave that slimy bastard. He had no wand, no blade, but he had his steely resolve and excellent hunting abilities.

It had been a mistake to use Astoria. He'd been more concerned with her safety than the task, and as a result, his predator skills suffered tremendously. Now, however, he had no one to hold him down. He couldn't care a less about his own health and safety. He only had one goal, one driving _need._

In midstride, his body shuddered and morphed into his Animagus form. He sprinted through the woods and toward the city.

**. . Dreams . .**

Ginny froze as a knock sounded at the door. She set down the bag of groceries and approached the door to Harry's flat, wondering at the identity of the visitor. Ron, Hermione, and Sirius knew she'd gone over to Harry's place when he failed to show up for Quidditch practice Friday night, and that was two days ago. She hadn't thought there were many people who visited Harry.

She opened the door, studying the unknown wizard.

He was tall and thin with a small box propped underneath his arm. He was younger, perhaps in his late thirties with dark hair and pale, aristocratic features. What truly caught her attention, however, were the brilliant red eyes.

Ginny stiffened, feeling a sense of unease. She refused to open the door any further than necessary, entirely suspicious. "Can I help you?" she asked politely, her heart pounding in her chest.

No one had ever made her feel so threatened. Oddly enough, the man hadn't even done or said anything to warrant such a response.

He looked at her, as if not entirely prepared to see someone other than Harry answer the door. She watched, morbidly fascinated as his pupils suddenly contracted into tiny slits as he considered her with sharp intensity. She felt like an insignificant and inferior insect under his silent, but superior scrutiny.

She nudged the door closed a bit more, wanting nothing more than to slam it shut.

"I'd like to speak to Harry," he requested after a long pause, his voice possessing a silky tenor.

The hairs on the back of Ginny's neck stood. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place his name or face. "He's not here at the moment." She cleared her throat, raising her chin. "Is there something you'd like me to give him?" Her eyes dropped to the small, wooden box. There were runes etched into the side, intriguing her.

He suddenly smiled, though it was far from welcoming and every bit pretentious. "No. I'm afraid this is something I want to give him personally." He continued to watch her unabashedly. "Ginevra Weasley, am I right? Harry's current lover. I believe our… introduction is long overdue. I've heard so much about you."

"And you are?" she inquired.

"An acquaintance of Harry's," the man replied simply. He looked over her head and into the loft. "Why don't we step inside?"

Ginny didn't want him inside, yet she found herself opening the door wide in invitation. A thick, cloudy nothingness blurred her instincts and dulled her common sense. She blinked rapidly, trying to fight off the odd sensation. As the man passed her and entered Harry's flat, Ginny smiled shakily and closed the door behind her.

She couldn't help but wonder who he was and how he and Harry were connected. He definitely didn't seem like the sort Harry interacted with, especially with his pompousness. Perhaps it was work related or—

"Ginevra," the man crooned. "I daresay you look a bit worried. Come away from the door. I will pour us a drink."

Pushing away from the door, Ginny approached the man, letting her curiosity get the better of her. Despite his initial arrogance, he was an impressive sight. Power and influence clung to him like a second skin, ascertaining that maybe his arrogance was warranted. It would certainly explain the proud set to his shoulders and chin.

He walked into Harry's flat as if he were familiar with the place. It unsettled and reassured her. He _did_ know Harry, at least well enough that he knew exactly where the Firewhisky was.

"When will he be home?" he inquired lazily.

Ginny frowned. The whole situation was surreal, hazy. "He… I don't know."

Crimson eyes looked up at her as he slid a tumbler of whiskey in her direction. "When was the last time you saw him?"

A part of her knew that this wasn't right. It was not proper for someone to invite themselves inside and pour themselves a drink. It was not appropriate for strange men to ask questions and expect forthcoming answers. Yet, Ginny found herself answering truthfully, as if she had no filter.

"He missed Quidditch practice Friday night. We haven't seen him since."

The man paused, as if that admittance truly surprised him. "Is that so?" His hesitation did not last long as he took his own drink and walked into the living room. He placed the box on the coffee table and motioned to the seat next to him. "I will have to look into his whereabouts. I had believed he had retreated here."

In a daze, Ginny found herself sitting next to the man as he lounged haughtily next to her. No matter how much she wanted to, she could not look away from his captivating stare.

After a long silence, he spoke. "Such a simple mind."

Ginny's face turned warm.

"Tell me," the man started, "why doesn't Harry's disappearance worry you?"

She licked her lips and her fingers curled over her knees. Despite her flee instincts, her mind stayed numb and incoherent. "Sometimes he needs distance. We respect that."

"It's happened before. His disappearances."

"Many times, though not so often nowadays." Ginny furrowed her brow, her tongue heavy. "I—I don't understand what's happening to me. It's as if I'm in a dream and I have no control. What are you doing?" She was held captive in her own body.

The man kept his attention on her as he twirled his glass between spidery fingers. "Magic you will never be capable of performing. Though I have to admire your loyalty and utmost devotion to Harry, I am underwhelmed with your natural mental defenses." He smiled thinly. "You are above average in the magical sense. Rather bland to the eye. Strong-willed, determined, very Gryffindor-like, but I fail to see why he keeps you around."

She sat stiffly at the edge of the couch, dazed, lost.

"You are leaving for Portugal?"

"I decided not to leave."

Crimson eyes narrowed and the glass stopped twirling. "Oh? And why is that?" His lips quirked in wary amusement. "You want to start a family, how very sweet. But you are aware of Harry's reluctance of having children, so you will be patient and respect his distance until he is ready."

A tear fell down her cheek as her vulnerability turned into humiliation. The man knew everything, saw everything, and he hardly had to lift a finger. She felt naked and exposed, a feeling she'd never experienced before.

The man leaned forward and wiped away her tears with mock concern. "You have no reason to cry, my dear. I would never hurt you. He'd never forgive me if I did." His red eyes brightened a moment later. "But that doesn't mean I can't play. And he'd never know, simply because you won't remember any of this."

Her spine stiffened as he held her chin, forcing intimate eye contact.

"Let me see some of that history that ties you two together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the cat is away…


	20. Chapter Twenty

**20\. Chapter Twenty**

"Brady Lund."

Lucius magically deposited the mutilated body on the rug, standing far enough away to prevent anything from soiling his robes. Across the room, the Dark Lord turned to face him, glancing briefly at the corpse before turning away. He wore his outer cloak and his expression conveyed his impatience. It was late, yet it seemed as if the Dark Lord had places to be.

"I hope you did not drag it through the manor." The Dark Lord picked up a pair of dragon-hide gloves. "You know how that can unsettle the young recruits."

Most of the young recruits were idiots, far too green to be useful. Lucius held his tongue however, knowing the Dark Lord needed the numbers. "Werewolves," Lucius implied. "He was killed and…" he trailed off and observed the exposed bone and flesh. "Half-eaten by the werewolves."

"Yes, I gathered as much."

Lucius licked his lips. "May I ask why you sent him alone, My Lord? If you needed an assignment properly completed, I would have gladly gone in his place." Cold, grey eyes looked back down at the corpse. "I'm afraid he has failed in his task and was tortured for answers. The werewolf community is enraged. They are calling for blood and I have a premonition they know who is behind it."

An empty threat. Werewolves were barbaric, but they were rather dim.

"I think what you're truly asking, Lucius, is _what_ my plans are for the werewolves." The Dark Lord stepped out from behind his desk and slowly approached him. "Though they would have made useful allies, I find their unruliness a detriment. I want my society orderly. Controlling them will be far more trouble than for what it's worth."

"I couldn't agree more, My Lord."

Lucius bowed at the waist with practiced ease. Though he disagreed with his Lord on some occasions, he knew his master had the ability of foresight. Above all else, he had patience and genius tactical skills. For decades, he carefully and deliberately put all the pieces in proper place, waiting for the exact moment to act.

And it would be soon.

As much as he wanted to know the circumstances surrounding Brady Lund and the werewolves, Lucius knew when not to pry. "Has Potter made it back to Britain?" The taste in his mouth was sour. "Or is he still running amuck in Germany?"

An unimpressed eyebrow rose. "You have good sources, Lucius. Tell me, why is it that Paxton Greengrass confirmed Potter retreated to Britain the night of Braun's attack, when, in fact, he did not? He's been in Germany for forty-eight hours. Unaccounted for." The Dark Lord stepped over the corpse and came to a stop directly in front of Lucius. "It becomes an inconvenience when I have to check up on someone _personally_."

"He failed in his mission, My Lord." His eyes dropped quickly from the Dark Lord. "Just as I believe Brady Lund failed in a previous mission. It's why you sent him to the werewolves, is it not? It's only right for Potter to throw himself in the viper pit to finish what he started."

Watching Potter had been an experience; Lucius would not deny it. The boy was beautiful when he moved. He was calculating and he possessed impressive astuteness. He was a hunter in every sense of the word. However, Lucius found Potter lacking in respect and the required submission. Potter would be the Dark Lord's downfall if he continued running wild with his grandiose beliefs of right and wrong.

Silence stretched and Lucius stiffened. Silence was never good, not with the Dark Lord.

Slowly, he looked up, palling at the intensity of the Dark Lord's stare.

"It is not your place to determine who lives and who dies, but rather _my_ own." He smiled thinly as Lucius went down to his knees in submission. "We will discuss your appropriate punishment at a later date, Lucius. I have a situation to clean up in Germany."

Lucius exhaled.

"Oh, and Lucius?"

"Yes, My Lord?" He raised his chin and stared at the far wall, sensing the Dark Lord at his back. He braced himself for a _Crucio,_ knowing he'd overstepped his boundaries tonight. While reports said Potter arrived back in Britain, Lucius hadn't informed the Dark Lord that the boy had left for Germany just as quickly as he'd arrived.

"Have you located Roland Jarvis yet?"

The American Unspeakable. "I am on his trail, My Lord. I believe he is settled in a rural town in America. As soon as his location is confirmed, I will notify you straight away."

"Be sure to do that."

As soon as Lucius was certain the Dark Lord left, he stood up hurriedly and wiped his robes free of debris. A pity he wouldn't be able to watch the Dark Lord hunt down his wayward assassin. A predator hunting a predator… how… sinfully delicious.

**. . Dreams . .**

Harry remained crouched in the shadows, staring resolutely at the safe house. His body remained coiled, poised, and motionless despite the bitter cold and the agony. Locating the safe house hadn't been easy. Not only had he nearly bled to death from a wound at his side, but he also had to commit acts he was not proud of.

All just to get the location of an estate _swarming_ with enemies.

He hunkered down on the tree branch, staring unseeingly at the manor. His fingers curled around two throwing knives, ready just in case Braun had enough balls to exit the house for the first time since the assassination attempt.

Despite Harry's resolve, despite the hollow ache growing in his chest from the children's deaths, he knew his revenge was futile. Braun was the Undersecretary for the Minister of Magic of Germany. He had powerful connections. He had political advantage. He had an endless amount of support if he needed it.

Harry, on the other hand, had meager throwing knives and Empathy.

He refused to move. He refused to go back to Britain like a kicked dog. He'd rather bloody die than leave his assignment. He had failed many times before, but those failures happened when he first began his work as _Custos._ This was his biggest failure yet. Somehow, adapting back into society after something like this did not sit well with him.

At least not when Braun was still alive, still reaping children for political carnal pleasure and discarding them so callously.

His ears suddenly twitched as he detected a sound other than the wind or the occasional wild animal in the snow. It was a continuous and smooth gliding, a sort of seductive sashaying. From the corner of his eye, he watched as a large serpent coiled its way up the tree, its dark scales reflecting off the crescent moon in the sky.

Harry's fingers tightened around his knives.

It was a large serpent, hardly native to the area, which meant it was magical. Either a familiar or an Animagus. He had his suspicions of who it was if it was the latter, though he remained on guard. Slowly, he turned his head, staring into unblinking, serpentine eyes.

A forked tongue reached out and tasted the air near Harry. Even in animal form, the man reeked of power and threat. Soundlessly, the serpent inched ever so closer to Harry before descending onto his shoulders. The body was heavy as it intentionally slid its scales across the back of Harry's neck.

The end of its tail looped around Harry's throat and squeezed eagerly.

"Don't push it," Harry whispered darkly.

The serpent coiled on the branch next to him before morphing into its human counterpart. Harry ignored him in favor of returning his gaze on the manor. The frigid air numbed his face, freezing his expression into the icy determination he'd worn for the past eight hours.

"You're seriously wounded," the man pointed out unnecessarily. "And as cold as Braun's trail."

Harry flashed the man a dark look before turning back to the estate. "Why are you here?"

Riddle smiled, his teeth flashing in the night. "To bring you back to Britain. I believe you have accomplished far more than you give yourself credit for. Stop this foolishness."

His eyebrows furrowed. "I accomplished nothing."

He didn't want to sound pitiable or sullen, especially not with Tom Riddle. The man was heartless, cruel, and far too arrogant. Harry hardly believed the man failed at anything substantial, at least not something as substantial as killing a dirty politician. He would not understand Harry's driving need to eliminate such taint.

"On the contrary," Riddle countered silkily. "Thanks to you and an anonymous tip, the German government stumbled their way into Braun's abandoned manor. They found the children and far too much incriminating evidence to sweep under the rug. Braun's reputation is soiled and he is an outcast to the world."

Harry listened, though the words hardly registered with him. He felt Riddle's stare, but refused to meet it.

"This is not the safe house Braun envisioned. It is but a death trap." The Dark Lord continued through Harry's stubborn silence. "He's terrified of leaving because he knows he has nowhere else to go. The men you see swarming the residence will eventually leave. All his connections will turn their backs on him. No one will ever want to associate with the likes of him again."

The Dark Lord sounded entertained at Braun's fate.

"You are so easily pleased, it's pathetic," Harry stated, hardly caring if his displeasure was obvious. "I want him _dead._ "

Despite Harry's insult, Riddle's attention hardly wavered. If anything, his stare intensified and a sinister darkness settled around his aura. "Look at you, so very, _very_ unstable. All because of those ruined children."

Harry had a throwing knife against Riddle's throat so fast, the man didn't have time to react. Harry could have slit it just as fast, could have killed him just as fast. But he did not. "You have no idea what I feel. What _they_ felt. How could you when you are an emotionless monster like all the others I condemn?"

Harry's attack was only successful because Riddle let his guard down earlier in their conversation. However, that changed seconds later as Riddle wrapped his hand around Harry's throat. The man's oppressive magic piqued and curled around Harry's neck, increasing the pressure. The extent of the force surprised Harry enough that he nearly dropped his knife.

He couldn't breathe. His windpipe felt as if it were being crushed. He could easily withstand the pain; he was quite familiar with it, though he knew this altercation would achieve nothing.

When his vision began to blur, he dropped his knife from Riddle's throat, wordlessly calling surrender.

"I am not one of your mindless victims," Riddle informed icily through Harry's coughing. "I tolerate your cheek because I appreciate it. Your blatant disrespect, however, will get you nowhere with me." He sneered at Harry. "You're in a pitiful state. Your Empathy has once again hindered your common sense."

"Screw you, Riddle," Harry rasped.

"I pity you."

Harry froze as he heard the one thing he never wanted to hear from anyone. Especially from Riddle. Those three words unraveled everything they established together. Whatever respect they had for one another, whatever twisted attraction Harry felt… was now entirely gone.

He dropped from the branch and landed in an awkward crouch, his wounded leg barely able to support his sudden weight. As he rose from the ground, Riddle appeared in front of him, pushing him against the trunk. Harry's boots slid in the snow as he stood on his tiptoes, held up by Riddle's unbridled magic.

A pale hand splayed across Harry's chest and Riddle's expression was neural. He didn't say anything for a long while, and it was enough for Harry to take pause. The hand on his chest was light and the close proximity spoke volumes. Riddle would never apologize, but Harry realized this was the Dark Lord's way of making amends.

"You have a _very_ powerful, but debilitating gift," Riddle said firmly. "It needs to be controlled through Occlumency. I cannot stress that enough."

Riddle's magic released him, yet the Dark Lord did not step away and neither did Harry. He looked up at the older wizard, a stubborn lift to his chin. No matter what tactic the man wanted to use, Harry wasn't going back to Britain. He was not going to abandon his mission.

"I have the means to get you inside to Braun," the Dark Lord started, as if sensing Harry's current line of thought. "If this means so much to you, then we will do it together." His crimson eyes finally fell away from Harry's face and raked the length of his body. "You are in no condition to defend yourself against a group of armed wizards."

His initial response was to walk away in disgust. Riddle had magical power, something Harry lacked and something he desperately needed to get to Braun. It was a bitter note to swallow that he needed help with a target. After all, Riddle suggested from the very _beginning_ that Harry should accept assistance from his Inner Circle.

At the time, he'd scoffed and found insult in the man's suggestion.

Now, Harry knew that he'd overlooked many things when it came to Braun. Riddle had known that the Undersecretary would have layers of protection. It was not an ordinary target. He'd carefully informed Harry of the possibility of failure if he did not accept help. But he'd been too stubborn.

"Will you kill the opposition?" Harry inquired stiffly, already knowing the answer.

Riddle quirked an eyebrow. "All but Braun. He will be yours entirely."

Harry looked toward the house, contemplating. He couldn't believe he would condone the imminent slaughter of innocent lives. Not when he'd come this far and committed his own sins. "I tracked down Braun when I had no leads. No wand. No weapons." He looked back at the Dark Lord, smiling twistedly. "Just the memory of the hell I'd just witnessed."

The Dark Lord looked unimpressed.

"I have ruined half a dozen men just to get answers and a faint scent of Braun's trail." He stepped closer to the older wizard. "You may think I am incapable and weak, but I think I did a hell of a job getting this far, especially when you knew more about this situation than you let on."

Here, Riddle's eyebrows skyrocketed with mock surprise. "I dearly hope that discovery does not surprise you. If I recall correctly, during the briefing of your assignment, you wanted me to 'skip to the part only you would be interested in'. To jog your memory, Potter, that was not the politics behind the assassination, but the human trafficking."

"You wouldn't have shared everything—"

"Probably not. I did not trust you enough to share everything."

Harry scoffed. "You do now?"

Something shifted in Riddle's eyes. "Hardly. You'd still gladly take me down if you had enough ammunition."

Pushing off from the tree, Harry stepped around the Dark Lord. Now was not the time to pry for answers, but he eventually needed to connect the dots of Riddle's political reach. "It's good to know we're on the same page, Riddle." He tilted his head towards the wards. "I want you to secure me passage past the wards without raising alarms. From that point, I will go on alone."

Riddle slowly pulled up his hood and cocked his head to look at Harry. "You are far too wounded. You will die here."

When would Riddle realize Harry just didn't _care_ about mortality or pain? "At least I will accomplish my mission." He adjusted his throwing knives and made certain his stolen wand was in proper place.

Riddle was correct about one thing. He was wounded. Truly. He was running on adrenaline and the senseless need to eliminate Braun. The fool politician really believed he was a match for Harry. Only, the man avoided direct competition by throwing obstacles in Harry's path.

"This is no longer about Braun, but rather avenging those children." Riddle lifted a hand toward the wards. "You are quite the dark savior, no?"

"I hope that's my new pet name," Harry replied darkly. "Though cliché, it's an improvement over 'child'."

Though Riddle's deep hood obscured the majority of his expression, a thin smile curled the edges of his mouth. "You will always be _my child_." Without using his wand, Riddle's magic reached longingly toward the thrumming wards. "Rather weak wards. A Secret Keeper wasn't used, nor were any potent rituals."

"A death trap," Harry surmised, using Riddle's earlier words. "Whoever Braun is working for didn't see any reason to properly protect him." He looked pointedly at Riddle. "Rather an unforgiving master."

Riddle chuckled. "His usefulness has run out. There is no reason to exhaust resources on a wanted and useless man."

Harry simply grunted, turning back to the wards. Like a parasite, Riddle's magic attached to a small section of the wards and slowly ate away at the magic. He waited, his mind centering on Riddle and the identity of Braun's mysterious master. Harry had casually thrown out the mention of Braun's master, not knowing if there was a single man behind Braun's service or a group.

Riddle had all but confirmed the existence of one man through his reply.

There was another player in this game. Another, higher power. This unknown man or woman had used Braun for his political influence across Europe. Harry remembered Riddle explaining that Braun had taken away a few of Britain's allies.

Clearly, Riddle's nemesis had ordered the political war with Braun. But who was Riddle's nemesis? Who was Braun's master?

Moreover, what were the objectives of this game?

"It's ready."

Harry turned his attention on the dark stain in front of him. It didn't thrum with magic like the rest of the wards, and it was a lot darker than its surroundings. It was simply a dark mark, a black hole. It was wide enough for Harry and it hadn't triggered any silent alarms. The last thing he wanted was Braun to Disapparate before he even got close to the man.

"I'd say thank you…"

"But that is entirely not your style," Riddle finished. "Go."

Harry looked at the tall, cloaked figure and couldn't help but to compare the man to a Dementor. Mystery, darkness, and malevolence cloaked the Dark Lord. Though he submerged himself with a strong, almost impenetrable Occlumency barrier, Harry knew, without a doubt, something undeniably tainted loomed eagerly underneath it all.

Riddle had things up his sleeve. Things that were a lot larger than kidnapping Muggle-born children from their homes and staging their deaths. And somehow, this unknown power, this master of Braun's, threatened Riddle's plans.

Harry could ask. However, he knew he wouldn't receive the full story. He needed to investigate things himself.

Instead, he turned his shoulder and ducked into the black darkness, appearing on the other side of the wards. He straightened and surveyed his surroundings with a critical eye.

He wanted to rely on silence and covertness. The less people who stood in his way, the better.

Sprinting, he made it across the grounds, ducking and hiding when the situation deemed it necessary. He stared resolutely at the manor from behind a tree, determining it was far better to climb up the house rather than entering through the front doors. He was far too wounded to confront the guards, no matter how much their loyalty currently wavered.

Harry whirled behind a tree and attacked a wandering guard from behind. Putting the guard in a headlock, he applied pressure to his windpipe until the man dropped unconsciousness.

Eyeing the pergola standing against the side of the manor, Harry sprinted and leaped, grabbing the top of the structure. His entire body screamed in protest at the action, though he did his best to ignore it. Just a bit further. Just a bit longer. He needed to accomplish this, especially when Braun was so close.

He swung his body and flipped on top the pergola before proceeding to land on top the first-story roof. His ears twitched when the air behind him shifted. Quickly, Harry threw back his elbow and slammed it into the assailant behind him. Turning, he grabbed with wizard's outstretched arm, taking great care the break the wrist that held the wand.

Before the man could cry out, Harry did a rapid strike to his temple with the butt of his throwing knife. The wizard barely knew what hit him before he crumpled to the ground unconscious.

Leaping over the fallen body, Harry ran and jumped against the uneven side of the manor's wall. Jagged bricks and stones gave him support to pull himself up the side of the tower. His leather gloves were spelled to create good grip, though it was still a struggle to pull his weight when his side seared with pain.

Pushing past his weaknesses, Harry continued to scale the wall. His mind no longer carried uncertainties and questions. It was quiet and open only to his surroundings. The silence and solitude was why he loved the hunt so much. Everything else fell away.

Reaching the top, he peered over the edge, noticing it was clear. He remained crouched as he climbed on top the roof, not wanting any possible observers to notice his presence. Hunkering low, he moved across the roof and over to the other side. He observed the garden in the middle of the manor's expansive footprint and the numerous windows.

The manor, while large, did not have many levels, which was fortunate. He didn't know how many more walls he could scale.

His eyes moved across the lit windows, pausing over a set of three not too far from his current location. The lighting was dim, almost easily missed. Harry braced a hand on top the brick and peered closer, his pupils dilating as he caught movement. Two men. One was Braun. He could see the man's impressive silhouette sitting stiffly by the fireplace, a wand clutched in his hand.

Near the door, another man stood stiffly, motionlessly.

A guard.

Harry crouched back down and contemplated the situation. If it were just Braun, it would be an easy elimination. With two, there was a wide margin of error. If he attacked the guard first, Braun would Disapparate and Harry would be back where he started. Alternatively, if he attacked Braun first, the guard would have a better chance of attacking Harry.

His attention stayed on the guard.

He couldn't afford any more setbacks, even if that meant killing someone who didn't necessarily fit his criteria.

His hand went down to his throwing knife, his mind analyzing his choices, the possibilities. He'd already lost Braun by choosing the children. What if he lost Braun again because he was too worried about the guard's safety? If he cast a Stunning hex or any sort of magical attack, the guard would most certainly block it and counter with his own spells.

Engaging in a duel was not an option, especially when Harry wanted to keep Braun under control.

The German's room was a good distance away from the nearest roof, but not impossibly far. Harry grinned. He coiled his muscles and clutched his throwing knife. On his knees, he backed away from the edge of the roof. As soon as he reached his desired distance, he stood up fluidly and raced to the end of the roof.

As his toes hit the edge, he leaped off, descending to the shorter roof beneath him.

Landing stealthily despite his bad leg, he bounded across the roof, his eyes fixated on Braun's window. He pushed himself faster, pumping his arms and legs and gaining speed. His right foot slapped the edge of the roof and he jumped across the distance with nothing but a two-story drop beneath him.

Raising his forearm, he covered his face and neck as he went through the window.

Fortunately, it shattered. He rolled onto the ground before leaping to his feet and throwing his knife. The blade embedded in the guard's neck, dropping the man instantly. His second knife cut through the air and drove into Braun's palm, holding his hand captive against the armrest.

The German's wand dropped from his fingers and rolled uselessly across the ground.

"N-no!"

"What?" Harry purred softly. "No demon to protect you? No more guards at your beck and call?" His eyes briefly left Braun's pale, sickly face and glanced at the other side of the room. "No helpless horde of children you can use as shields? My, my, Braun, it looks as if you've run out of tricks."

A sheen of sweat coated the man's face as he stared wordlessly at Harry. The man trembled, in shock at both Harry's sudden appearance and the knife through his palm. Blood soaked the ivory armchair, staining it a dark crimson. Seconds later, Braun opened his mouth and inhaled deeply, clearly ready to scream.

"Nah-uh," Harry scolded silkily. He held up another throwing knife between his two fingers, smiling. "I don't like screaming. If you so much raise your voice, I will force this down your throat." He doubted anyone would come running if Braun decided to scream anyway. If they hadn't heard the window shatter, they wouldn't hear the man's cries.

Braun shut his mouth and stared stonily at Harry. "What do you want?"

Harry slowly circled the man's chair. "I always enjoy the sight of a man stripped of all his power and pride." His leather hand reached out and slid almost seductively across Braun's broad shoulders. "Especially such an influential man like yourself, Undersecretary Braun."

Stopping behind the older wizard, Harry leaned down and stared at Braun's averted face. A lazy smile crossed Harry's lips as he clutched the man's shoulder. He breathed in the man's smell, the man's naked fear, and the foul taint staining his aura and soul. Sweat beaded the greying hairline and slid down his cheek like tears.

"I'm curious…" Harry whispered, intentionally breathing in the man's ear. "Why you don't have your Occlumency shield right now." His leather glove groaned as he tightened his grip on the man's shoulder. "It was so impressively strong at your manor. And you held the minds of those children with such… righteous ownership."

"It's not- It's not _me_."

Green eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

It was strange. Harry took note of Braun's flickering Occlumency shields earlier at his manor. The days before his assassination attempt, Harry had noticed a very faint Occlumency shield, but nothing strong enough to block out his taint. However, that night, with the children, it had been remarkably strong. Harry couldn't reach him with his Empath ability and Braun even had the power to hold the children's minds captive.

It didn't add up.

"It's not you?" Harry repeated. He pressed a knife against the man's throat. "It certainly looked like you. It certainly _sounded_ like you when you threatened to kill them all if I didn't let you run."

Braun swallowed, causing the blade to nick his sensitive skin. "Yes! It was me!" He strained his neck around, hoping to catch Harry's eyes but avoid the blade. "But it wasn't me who killed the children. It's not _my_ Occlumency shield." He licked his lips, the sweat pouring down more heavily. "I'm only a puppet. Like you!"

Harry pushed off from behind the man and waltzed back around the chair. He touched the blade still embedded in Braun's palm before pushing if further down.

Braun screamed.

"I am no puppet."

His words were cold and so severe, that Braun instantly stopped screaming. Harry walked around and sat on the coffee table directly in front of Braun. Their knees hit and Harry playfully nudged him back.

"Who is your master?" Harry inquired, splaying a hand on the man's knee. "Hmm? Who is your puppeteer?"

Braun's pain-filled expression suddenly cleared and a stubborn light entered his eyes. If silence had an expression, Harry was currently looking at it. He sighed and placed the tip of his knife on the inside of Braun's thigh. Despite the numerous obstacles the man used to run away, he was not a coward.

He was a strong man. Powerful in both magic and mentality.

"You were so eager to blame someone else for those children's deaths. Now you won't say anything against a master who abandoned you." Harry retracted the knife and took out his wand. "I'm not one for using magic in such an intimate setting, but I think this is particularly necessary." He tapped his throwing knife with his wand and it grew double in size.

Braun flinched and exhaled noisily. "I can give you anything you want, boy."

"I simply want the name of your master."

The man's pale eyes stared back at Harry. Clearly, he was not going to speak.

Harry brought back his hand and chopped the man's arm off at the elbow. The scream was high-pitched and blood showered across Harry's face. He smiled serenely and started reaching for the man's belt. "Who is the name of your master, Braun? Your manhood is next."

"S-stop! Stop! I—"

The man stopped so suddenly, Harry paused in his ministrations and looked up at the German Undersecretary. The man's face turned slack and his eyes glazed over. Just as suddenly, his grey, milky eyes turned blue-grey and harder, crueler. Their pupils dilated as they focused on Harry with single-minded intensity.

"He works for me. Or, he _did_ work for me."

The words coming from Braun were arrogant, pleased. Harry stood slowly, never witnessing possession on this magnitude. The hairs on the back of his neck stood as the eyes probed his own mind, nearing entrance, but just a teasing proximity away from Legilimency.

"And you are?" Harry asked, intrigued and unafraid.

Braun's expression morphed into inhumane amusement. "My followers call me Lord Regbo. It is good to finally see you in your element, Harry Potter. It's a good look." He blinked and a languid smirk crossed his features. "If you were not accompanied by your overprotective Dark Lord, I _may_ have stayed and chatted. We will meet again, I assure you."

And just like that, Braun's glossy eyes returned and his body slumped. Blood leaked from his eyes and nostrils, evidence of the foreign and invasive presence that recently occupied his mind. Harry stared down at the empty shell, reaching forward and pressing his fingers against his pulse point.

The man was still alive, only broken.

Harry slide his knife across the man's throat, spilling blood and ending his miserable life. He stood numbly amongst the bloody mess, assessing the scene. His eyes lingered on the dead guard at the doorway, guilt finally making itself known in his stomach. He lost himself again. The hunt and the claim had been more important than the prospective lives that stood in his way.

Regbo.

The name was familiar. Harry vaguely remembered Riddle showing him a photograph of a man whose name was Regbo.

"Who is Regbo, Riddle?" Harry asked the silent room.

His back stiffened as he felt a cool breeze at his back. He turned and looked at the broken window, seeing no evidence of Riddle despite Regbo's suggestion. Suddenly, cool lips pressed themselves at the back of his neck, instantly stilling him. Harry gazed at the mirror across the room and immediately noticed the dark cloud behind him. It was clearly Riddle, who'd followed him this whole way.

Riddle's aura engulfed him, embraced him. Magic, so potent he wondered how he could have missed it before, fragmented the air.

For a moment, Harry stood in the center of the Darkness, bathing himself in the cool and comfortable feel of such magic. He'd never felt so at peace, so completely certain of himself and his actions. The guilt left him, the fear, and the pain. Nothing but self-assurance, power, and sweet nothingness touched his mind. This was the Darkness. This was what Riddle felt all the time... to harness such power and bathe within it. 

And then Riddle's presence retreated, taking the nothingness with him.

**. . & Darkness . .**

"I killed this past weekend."

William Stratton set down his teacup and placed the saucer back on the coffee table. "I fail to see how that is different from any other weekend. I thought murder was your rehabilitation." He adjusted his dark glasses and peered at Harry's solemn expression. "Oh. I see. You killed someone who did not fit your requirements."

"Someone?" Harry repeated, bitterly amused. "More like _someones_. Plural." He looked over Stratton's head. "I lost control. I watched several innocent children kill themselves on a single man's order. They were completely and utterly helpless. I wanted revenge. And the only way I could achieve that revenge was to kill those in my way."

The tawny-haired therapist pursed his lips. "You have a Quidditch game coming up. Are you excited?"

Harry stared at the springy male before scoffing. "You're a horrible psychologist."

Stratton appeared bemused before understanding cleared his expression. "My _goodness._ You truly do feel remorse for what happened." He leaned back against the sofa and smiled mysteriously. "Well, isn't this a surprise? I don't really know what to say." He tilted his head. "Do you feel as if these deaths could have been prevented?"

Harry shifted and clasped his hands together. He pondered over the question, and more importantly, the heavy, acidic weight of guilt in his throat. It wasn't nearly as bad as it should have been. The guilt. Nevertheless, he acknowledged what he did was wrong. He _should_ feel remorse.

Yet, he forced those men to commit suicide because he feared losing Astoria to Braun. They had to be killed. They were witnesses to her involvement. _His_ involvement. He'd run out of potion to wipe their memories. His _Obliviate_ was not up to par. They needed to go.

And the guard he'd stabbed with his throwing knife… well, his death should have been prevented.

"If I hadn't killed those men, I would have never been able to accomplish what I wanted to. The man I needed to kill… he was truly a sick bastard." Harry rubbed his palms together. "I don't want to lose sight of what I am. Who I am. I don't want to become someone who kills on whim just because it's convenient."

"And do you feel like you're becoming one of those men?"

Harry's mouth quirked. "It won't happen again." He clenched his hands and stood up, agitated. "I was unorganized. Completely and utterly unprepared." He raked a hand through his hair. "My performance suffered because I went into a situation blind."

Stratton was silent for a moment. "Did Tom Riddle assist you?"

The question had Harry turning and looking down his nose at Stratton. "He's the reason I was unprepared. He kept me in the dark."

"Surely that doesn't surprise you." Stratton flashed his teeth in a semblance of a grin. "He isn't just a grandfatherly Minister, you know. He _is_ darkness personified. Perhaps he's influencing you in ways you haven't considered."

"He didn't make me kill those men."

"No? You are definitely not as torn up over killing an innocent as I thought you would be."

"If anything, Riddle stabilizes me." As soon as he said the words, Harry sneered and backtracked. "What I meant, is that I am more aware of who I am in his presence. I can accept my faults." It didn't sound particularly better. If anything, it was too sentimental, too weak. It was if he were supporting Riddle's presence in his life.

However, as much as he'd like to deny it, Harry didn't feel quite as alone anymore now that Riddle knew his secret. He had someone to ground him and force him to stay sane, to stay alert and on his toes. It was something he'd never felt before. Alone, he dwelled, he second-guessed himself and he submerged himself in the emotions of others.

But Riddle… the bloody bastard's presence had seemingly _stabilized_ Harry.

This conclusion frustrated him. Angered and even disgusted him. Riddle was arrogant. He was tainted beyond anything Harry could imagine. There were secrets, games, and bloody insanity between the two of them.

A strange, serene smile stretched across Stratton's face. "Then I suggest you up your game, Harry, and do try to be his match."

Harry blinked, his thoughts suddenly coming to a standstill. Before he knew it, the tawny-haired therapist stood from the couch and shuffled near the door. "You sound as if you support his involvement—"

"I support him and you." Stratton wiped the front of his cloak, as if brushing away a layer of grime. "What I don't support, however, is his complete dominance. You must stand on your own and be his equal. Not his plaything. Both of you will thrive if you are on the same level. I think you can trust him in the scheme of things."

Harry watched the man through narrowed eyes. The riddle that was William Stratton grew in intensity.

"As for those innocents you killed…" Stratton threw on his outer cloak. "You acknowledged that it was not the right thing to do. I don't anticipate it becoming a habit if you remain levelheaded. You are a good person, Mr. Potter. Your actions are a bit questionable, but you have an admirable moral code."

The therapist grabbed his walking cane and used it to maneuver to the front door.

"Stratton," Harry called, curious at the man's sudden change of demeanor. "Have you ever heard of a Legilimens powerful enough to control a group of people at once?" The man stiffened. "Those children I told you about… they couldn't fight the hold on their mind. They were forced to commit suicide."

"Can you force someone to commit suicide, Harry?" Stratton turned and raised an eyebrow. "With your Empathy?"

Surely, the man couldn't know. Harry's suspicions heightened and he remained silent.

"Stay away from him." Stratton opened the door to Harry's flat. "You will do best to keep a distance. You and Riddle are equals, Harry, but when it comes to this man, leave him to Riddle." He then chuckled loudly. "Good luck at your match. I dearly hope Gryffindor wins. I have placed a hefty amount of gold on your game. So do try to heal up a bit more before you mount your broomstick."

After a wicked smirk, Stratton departed, tapping his cane smartly on the door in his haste to leave.

Harry frowned and continued to stare at the door. Stratton was always a bit off his rocker, but tonight proved the man had a logical side to him. He was both serious and solemn as he warned Harry about Regbo and encouraged him to stay close to Riddle. It was entirely puzzling. A far cry from his usual persona.

His eyes then fell on a flash of gold on top the couch cushion.

Approaching the couch Stratton occupied, Harry grabbed the abandoned piece of jewelry. As he held up the locket to the light, his breath caught in his throat. It was a familiar piece of jewelry, only because he'd given it to his mother on her birthday just months before the kidnapping.

His fingers trembled as he opened it. Inside was the same family photograph he remembered, but accompanying it was a lock of auburn hair.

Fury burned hot as Harry sprinted to the door and threw it open.

" _ **Stratton**_!"

**. . Collide . .**

"It's good to see you back in the Quidditch scene. I always thought you looked best in your element."

Harry stiffened at the phrase, recalling Regbo's similar expression not too long ago. He smiled distractedly at Sirius as he fastened on his Quidditch gear. Being here was the last place he wanted to be. Not only did he want to investigate Riddle and Regbo, but he wanted, no _needed_ to find Stratton.

"Are you alright, Harry?"

Besides the dull throb in his side, he was fine physically. "I'm alright, Sirius." He glanced at his team members around the locker room, going nearly blind at the bold crimson and gold uniforms. "Maybe just a bit nervous."

Sirius jeered and reached over to ruffle his hair. "You have nothing to worry about. Can you hear that?" He wiggled his eyebrows at the sheer noise above them. "The entire stadium is packed. Food and booze are plentiful. Money is pouring in from everywhere to help Hogwarts. You did a good job, Prongslet. Your parents would be proud of you."

The comment amused him greatly. If only Sirius knew…

"Besides, I'm looking forward to watching you kick Slytherin's arses." He slapped Harry's back.

"Hopefully you're looking forward to _all_ of us kicking Slytherin arse," Ginny pipped in from behind Sirius. She grinned widely at the pair. "It's good to see you made it to the match, Harry. We were getting concerned at your absence."

She said it so casually, one might have missed the worried note in her tone. Harry didn't. He felt it. Tasted it. Oddly enough, there was also a pang of regret and apprehension coming from Ginny that Sirius did not share. He considered her briefly, noticing the strain around her mouth and eyes.

Sirius frowned, his friendly hand on Harry's shoulder turning firm. "If you aren't ready for this—"

"I'm ready." Harry chuckled easily, throwing out vibes of reassurance to the both of them. "I needed some time this weekend, but I'm more than ready to do this. In fact, I'm looking forward to it."

Across the locker room, Fred and George cheered loudly, not hiding the fact they'd been eavesdropping on the conversation. Next to them, Ron beamed, his face flushed with excitement for being the reserve Keeper. He gave Harry a thumbs-up, drunk on excitement and anticipation. In fact, the entire team was ecstatic.

Harry had almost forgotten what it was like to surround himself with such pure, wholesome emotions. This past weekend seemed to have stretched on for eternity. His mind remained cloudy and bleak, his instincts on edge. However, he had to remind himself that he was no longer hunting; he was no longer being _hunted_.

He had his public guise to honor, after all.

Once again, he found it an incredibly heavy mask to wear.


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quidditch action! Just cause we need a little light entertainment from all the heaviness, no? Sorry for the late update, this month has been difficult for me. I did not respond to all of you like I wanted, though I thank each and every one of you for taking the time to tell me what you think. I truly appreciate it.
> 
> Enjoy. – Typos in this chapter, sorry

**21\. Chapter Twenty-One**

Sirius was right.

The stadium was full.

Located in the observation box with the Gryffindor and Slytherin team, Harry gazed out into the Pitch. Below, the fans poured into the stands and situated themselves for the game. Up here, in the observation box, a selected number of people could mingle with the Quidditch players before the game. Autographs, photographs, and petty conversation took place behind him.

He couldn't stand it.

He had places to be. He had to hunt Stratton. The man was nowhere in Britain, that much Harry knew from his searches.

His hands clenched repetitively at his sides as he heard the inane chatter. There weren't many children at the game, simply because it was geared for the adult audience with the violent match, the wagering, and the booze. However, that certainly didn't stop the adults from herding toward their favorite Quidditch players like children.

Oliver Wood truly knew what he was doing when he brainstormed ways to raise money for Hogwarts. Everything worked out flawlessly. Harry knew they'd draw a crowd with a throwback match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, only because the majority of the players were now in the professional circuit. However, he hadn't figured it would be _this_ popular.

He also knew Viktor Krum was the reserve Seeker for Slytherin. That probably explained the large turnout.

"You don't need to look so amicable, you know," a voice sounded beside him.

Harry glanced at Hermione, surprised to see her approach him on her own, freewill. And without Ron or Ginny. She wore a simple coat with a Gryffindor scarf and mittens, a far more subtle decision on fan gear than the other spectators. Her expression was neutral, though she looked at him as if he were a lost soul.

Sighing, he looked back out at the Pitch.

"There are several people who are eager to meet you, Harry. You don't need to isolate yourself. I've seen dozens of fans wearing your old jersey from the English National team." Hermione placed her hands in her coat pocket. "You always did have a large fan base, no matter what it was you did."

There was a double meaning behind that comment.

Harry slanted a look in her direction, utterly unamused. "Many would say I do the right thing."

A flush stained her cheekbones. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

"Hardly the setting to do so," Harry countered without missing a beat.

He turned, catching the eyes of both McGonagall and Riddle as they conversed amongst each other. The old Headmistress held up a hand in greeting, motioning him over. Before he even had the chance to consider, Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled him back. The force she extracted surprised him enough to give her attention.

"I need to say this now," she insisted quietly, yet sternly. "I've _needed_ to say this." Her hand turned slack before she looped her arm around his. Slowly, she pulled him alongside her, strolling near the perimeter of the observation windows. "I've had more than enough time to think things through."

"I thought you already made your mind up about this whole ordeal. You said I needed help and that you'd try to grin and bear it for Ron and Ginny's sake." Harry's smile grew strained. "I remember, Hermione."

"No." She exhaled. "I just want to make something clear to you." Her dark eyes looked up at him. "I love you."

Harry quirked an eyebrow.

"Not, romantically," she clarified breathlessly, earning a soft, true smile from Harry. "You were always there for me at Hogwarts, especially those early years when I had trouble adjusting. The bond you and I shared, and then the bond we shared with Ron and Ginny… it's strong, Harry. I want to continue that, even if it _has_ changed."

He pondered over her words. "We aren't children any longer, Hermione. You don't owe me anything."

"I know that," she insisted. "Nonetheless, I just want to clear the air. I don't like this distance between us." They stopped and gazed out the observation windows. "I don't agree with what you do, or more specifically, how you go about it. But when I look at it from your perspective, a part of me understands."

He took in her drawn eyebrows, her determined eyes, and her stubborn mouth. Harry knew that expression. He'd seen it many times throughout the years when she faced an enormous obstacle. Suddenly, unexpectedly, his chest warmed and he remembered the innocent days, he remembered her familiarity.

"I just want you—"

He took an abrupt hold of her hand and brought it to his lips, silencing her into shock. "When you found out about me, I was upset with you for not understanding. For not changing your beliefs to match mine. _But_ , like you, I've had time to think on it as well. I've come to appreciate how much this world needs people like you. People who are genuine and truly want to help others."

She frowned. "Harry—"

"No, Hermione." Harry grinned, finally coming to terms with something he'd struggled with for a long while. "I wanted you to become me, and in doing so, it would have ruined you as well." He tightened his grip on her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "It's my job to protect you. Not the other way around."

"You're not a debauched martyr, Harry," she whispered.

"Perhaps. Though I've come to see myself differently these past few weeks." He dropped her hand. "I don't want to bring you into this lifestyle. If you want to do something to help, continue putting criminals in Azkaban. The less there are on the streets, the lighter my workload will be."

After diving into Riddle's world and discovering the layers of corruption and darkness, Harry realized that he was living in the wrong realm. He was trying to fit in with people like Sirius, Hermione, and Ron. He compared himself to them. When, in actuality, they were incomparable.

Though he felt separated from his loved ones, his sense of duty to protect them remained strong.

What was wrong walking amongst the dark if it meant keeping those in the light safe and wholesome? What did Riddle call it? A dark savior? Perhaps it was time to accept his role as the darkness and continue saving innocents.

Hermione stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against his cheek. "I will always be here for you, Harry. Always." She pulled back and smiled, though it was bittersweet. "I heard Draco's father forbade him from participating in this match. I saw him skulking about somewhere… he'd be an easy target…"

Harry didn't know whether to be amused or scandalized that Hermione was encouraging him to prey on Malfoy. "You should know I only prefer difficult targets, Hermione."

He winked and turned, nearly running over a petite witch with wide, green eyes. Astoria Greengrass looked up at him, her eyes expressive, her entire face expressive. Seeing her brought back a wave of memories Harry wanted to bury deep within himself and never face again. However, Riddle's Occlumency lesson reminded him that it was _necessary_ to view and accept memories before they took hold over his mind.

A small, lingering sense of longing swelled from Astoria. She wanted to say something to him, Harry knew, but they'd never met before in public, at least not formally.

Surprisingly, she did a smooth curtsey and ducked behind him.

"Hermione Granger?" her light, feminine voice inquired from behind Harry's shoulder. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Astoria Greengrass and I was interested in learning more about your line of profession."

Harry pressed his lips together in a smug smile, pleased at the strong and stubborn defiance emitting from the younger girl. She was not broken. Good. What she witnessed had apparently ignited the fire Harry had sensed within her. He wasn't attached, of course, merely… invested in her wellbeing.

" _Potter_."

Lazily, he looked up at McGonagall and Riddle, amused to see the old Headmistress' impatient beckoning. Over her shoulder, Harry locked eyes with Riddle. The Minister's expression was entirely stoic and professional, absolutely no sliver of familiarity as Harry approached. The man was _good._

"Headmistress McGonagall," he greeted as he closed in on the pair. "And Minister Riddle."

"You've met Minister Riddle, haven't you, Potter?" McGonagall reached for Harry's shoulder as soon as he stopped next to her. "He and I taught at Hogwarts together before he transferred to the Ministry." She smiled thinly. "I was just telling him how much he will enjoy watching you fly. You are truly a work of art in the air."

A rare compliment from McGonagall, but she made it no secret that she enjoyed watching her Gryffindors on the Pitch.

Harry turned to look at Riddle, raising his eyebrows at the green and silver necktie. "I wasn't aware you supported the losing team, Minister." His lips twisted despite himself. Oh, he just couldn't resist it. "You always struck me as a smart man. I suppose all perceptions must be broken at some point."

Riddle's eyes flashed and then glittered hungrily.

McGonagall was oblivious to it, as it was gone before Harry could fully appreciate it.

"I don't know much about Quidditch, Mr. Potter," Riddle started easily, a false bravado. "However, I must support my House. Moreover, I heard Viktor Krum is quite the Seeker." He smiled. "One of the youngest Seekers of our time."

McGonagall appeared flustered at the comment. "Besides our own Harry Potter." Her hand clutched Harry's shoulder, a sign of both her loyalty and fierce competitive nature. "I have no doubt Mr. Potter will dominate Viktor Krum should he make an appearance as the Slytherin's _reserve_ Seeker."

Riddle's eyebrows lifted. "I'll be looking forward to that domination, Potter."

The words went straight to his groin. He wouldn't deny it. A curious longing welled up inside Harry as he looked at the older wizard. There was something about Riddle he couldn't shake. He knew getting involved with the man was probably the stupidest thing he could do, yet he wanted it.

He wanted that dark possession, the sinful depravity.

"Well, I hope we can keep you both entertained this evening."

McGonagall flashed him a stern look, as if to say he'd _better_ give it his all. She expected no less from him. "You've done a terrific job putting this event together, Potter. Hogwarts will always be indebted to you."

Harry glanced over her shoulder at the swarm of crimson clad Quidditch players. "I can't take all of the credit, Headmistress. Oliver Wood is the mastermind behind this event." He smiled. "Hogwarts has and always will be our home. It's the least we could do to show our support."

The Gryffindor team crowded around the bar, their voices growing in volume. Harry narrowed his eyes as he received smug looks from his team members. His suspicions only grew as Fred Weasley stood up on the bar and raised a shot glass in the air. It drew attention from all the occupants of the observation room.

"Pregame round on Potter!" Fred hollered.

Everyone looked to Harry, their eyes bright as they held their breath for confirmation. He couldn't help but to grin tightly, especially when strong disapproval emitted from McGonagall.

"Potter, you will _not_ —"

Harry held up two fingers. "First _two_ rounds are on me!" Cheers erupted and Harry smiled sweetly at McGonagall. "You included, Headmistress." He ducked out of her line of sight before she could lecture on the sheer stupidity of drinking before the game.

It would help take the edge off his teammates. Besides, seeing the horrified look on McGonagall was worth it.

**. . Dreams . .**

The pandemonium coming from the Pitch above was nearly deafening and the game hadn't even started yet. Again, Harry marveled at the popularity of Wood's throwback match. He supposed, had he been the same Harry he was three years ago, the idea would have been bloody wicked.

Now, he preferred following Riddle around in the basement tunnels.

He didn't know the moment their relationship changed from rivals to allies, but Harry somewhat missed stalking Riddle with unfriendly and curious intentions. Though he still saw the Dark Lord as a challenge and a mystery that needed solving, there was no longer an animalistic need to eliminate.

In its place was a hungry, yet eager insistence to claim and dominate. Which, he realized after thoughtful consideration, was equally, if not more thrilling than stalking a generic prey with unfriendly intentions.

Silently, he moved through the labyrinth of the stadium's basement, following _him_ and _his_ aura with practiced ease _._

Understandably, there were also advantages to being allies instead of rivals. For one, he was closer than ever. It was to his benefit that the Dark Lord shared Harry's unhealthy obsession. They united resources and knowledge, and Harry was _always_ on his toes with the man. Always looking over his shoulder, always comfortable in his own skin.

Not that he'd ever admit that to Riddle aloud.

"What has upset you?" the man murmured inquisitively from the shadows.

Harry gazed through the darkness and towards the tall figure across from him. He could discern the man's presence, his tone, however, remained vague. "The last time I checked, Riddle, _I_ was the Empath, not you." He smiled tightly. "Is that why you lured me down here? To inquire about my frame of mind?"

"I would hardly call it luring on my part." Riddle stepped forward, the sharp planes of his face becoming evident in the dim lighting. "You followed me like an eager dog trailing his master."

"Or perhaps you're like a dog hoping his master will take the time to follow."

Harry perked up with interest as an amused Riddle stopped inches from him. If Harry so much flexed his fingers outward, they'd brush against the man's cloak. Such teasing distance was nearly agonizing.

What Harry wanted to do with the man… well, he knew Riddle reciprocated that desire.

Riddle could play coy all he wanted. He was quite good at remaining impassive and in control, but Harry knew, without a doubt, the man was simply _obsessed_ and intrigued. He'd been obsessed ever since _Custos_ became a threat to his Ministry. That obsession hadn't tapered since the reveal of Harry's identity. If anything, it had intensified.

As if no longer denying himself the temptation, the Dark Lord leaned forward and teased Harry with his proximity.

The man's lips just barely brushed against his before he moved his nose down into the crook of Harry's neck. He inhaled deeply, causing a shockwave of pleasure to dance down Harry's spine. A smooth, seductive hissing sounded from the man as he spoke Parseltongue into Harry's ear.

Harry exhaled deeply as Riddle's hands planted firmly on his hips. His own hands trembled at his sides as he resisted the urge to wrap them around the man and pull him flush against his chest.

"I have something to give you."

Riddle pulled back abruptly and Harry twitched at the withdrawal. Reaching out, he grabbed Riddle's green and silver tie. He fisted the silky material and pulled the man forward, pressing their lips together. His opposite hand raked through the man's thick tresses, soothing, and then yanking to apply pressure.

The man made a noise in his throat, similar to that of a satisfied, yet conniving kitten.

When Harry released him, he noticed the man no longer appeared dazed and surprised at Harry's blunt dominance as he had earlier in their… acquaintanceship. If anything, he looked pleased, as if he'd encouraged it himself.

"You're a tease," Harry whispered hoarsely.

"No," Riddle started slyly, a hint of dark sarcasm. "We must think of dear Ginevra. We cannot go any further, for you'd be committing infidelity."

Harry observed him narrowly, considering the bright crimson eyes and the god-awful devious expression. The man was the bloody antichrist as he threw Astoria Greengrass' words back at him. Harry needed to speak with Ginny, yes, he knew, but there hadn't been much time. Besides, she was making the move to Portugal.

"Awfully thoughtful and considerate of you, Riddle."

"Tom."

It took him aback, the name correction. Harry floundered for a moment, analyzing the motivations and reasons behind Riddle's request. Now, however, was not the time to analyze things in depth. "Riddle suits you better." He cocked his head and studied the man through lowered lids. "You wanted to give me something? Perhaps a pregame incentive? Or my next political target?"

Instead of responding, Riddle dug out a small container from his pocket. He waved his hand over it and it expanded in size.

"I was going to wait to give you this, but I grew too eager." Riddle blinked languidly at Harry, the picture of sophisticated laziness as he held out a box with runes etched on the sides.

They'd moved on to the gift-giving stage, Harry realized with muted horror. First-name basis and now gifts without negotiations or blackmail material. He wondered at that, wondered why it didn't _bother_ him as much as he knew it should. Riddle certainly wasn't a bloody sap as he offered the gift. If anything, he appeared disinterested.

That much Harry was thankful for, as he would be at a loss if Riddle sprouted sentimental and appreciative comments.

With a neutral air, he accepted the box and opened the lid. "A wand," he stated nonchalantly. "With…" he trailed off, squinting closer at the wand.

As he reached for it, Riddle interrupted.

"Do not touch it yet. Bonding with the wand will take time."

Harry's hand hovered over the unique grey wand, his eyes tracing over the runes etched on the wood. They were similar to the runes on the box, but the more he looked at the markings, the more he realized they weren't _runes._ They were far too curvy.

"Parseltongue," Harry breathed, his pulse racing with startled realization. He looked up at the blasé Dark Lord, realizing the man had been observing him closely. "This—what kind of wand is this? I read Salazar constructed a few wands before his death. This isn't one of them, is it?"

"It is," Riddle replied with a hint of pride. "It is a Slytherin heirloom."

Veiling his expression, Harry stared at the man. In his hands, the box grew nearly unbearable with heaviness. He didn't want it. It had far too much value, especially considering he could barely tolerate the gift-giver at times. Granted, they were far closer than they were weeks ago, and yet…

"Do not see it as a gift, but rather a favor to me. It needs to be used. It hasn't been used in centuries," Riddle continued after Harry's persistent silence. He no doubt anticipated Harry's forthcoming refusal. "I believe you are the perfect wizard to wield it. It is almost as if it were made for you personally."

"Why don't you use it?"

Riddle reached out a pale hand and splayed it upon the open lid. Slowly, he closed it and smiled thinly. "It is temperamental, and above all else, very possessive." He tapped the lid. "It will bond with you and expect to be your only source of weaponry. Once you have fully bonded with it, it will turn into any weapon upon a mere _thought_ , magical or muggle."

The Dark Lord removed his hands and raised both, as if surrendering to an unrelenting foe. "It is far too possessive for a Wizard who relies heavily on wandless magic." Here, the man paused and smirked, as if something amused him greatly. "You strike me as someone who can tolerate a great deal of possessiveness."

"Oh?" Harry inquired dryly.

"Yes. As long as the possessiveness doesn't become domineering. That's when you buck, and are rather delicious in your ferocity."

The words amused him greatly. "Are we still talking about magical weapons? Or has this turned into an in-depth analysis of why I'd be a compatible match to a possessive Dark Lord?"

"Magical weapons, I assure you," Riddle purred. "Though, it pleases me you use the term _compatible_."

Harry scoffed, trying to hide how much he enjoyed the man and the conversation. He looked down and away from the searching crimson eyes and touched the wooden box. The Dark Lord had successfully distracted Harry from William Stratton and the upcoming Quidditch match.

It was an impressive feat.

"I truly appreciate this," Harry said, motioning to the box. "I will use it to the best of my abilities." It made up for losing his dagger, wherever Braun had stashed it.

"What has you troubled?" Riddle questioned again, clearly not forgetting his earlier enquiry.

His mother's locket felt like a weight in his pocket. Harry's fingers bypassed the piece of jewelry as he withdrew his wand and shrunk Riddle's gift. He didn't want this conversation right now. Fortunately, before he had to respond, a resounding chime filled the Pitch and filtered to the lower levels of the arena.

"I am being summoned," Harry informed, a bit too happily.

As he turned to leave, a hand grabbed him by the forearm. "Come to my manor tonight. Spend the night," Riddle requested. "Tomorrow we will go speak to Roland Jarvis, your American Unspeakable that worked with your mother."

The request sent a chill down Harry's spine. He remained turned away from Riddle, though the man's hand on his arm remained firm and unyielding. Excitement and a sense of forbidding caused his stomach to spasm. "Are you denying me a chance to meet with Jarvis unless I sleep with you?" Harry asked dangerously.

The hand tightened and Riddle laughed lowly. "I am requesting your presence tonight, Mr. Potter. What nightly activities occur during our time together is entirely up to you. Remember, _Ginevra._ "

"Arsehole," Harry growled, easily maneuvering and twisting his arm out of Riddle's tight hold. "I have a Snitch to catch. I will see you tonight." He walked down the dark corridor, feeling the eyes on him and tasting just a teasing hint of Riddle's enticing magic.

As painful as it was to admit, he wanted to embrace in that magic once more.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Riding on a broom resurrected a sliver of the old Harry Potter.

He couldn't resist it, this innocent and pure exhilaration. It didn't help matters that the whole stadium felt the same. All their emotions melded together into one, cohesive blur of drunken excitement. It was a bit overwhelming, but when emotions all tended to mirror each other in such a positive way, it was easier for Harry to absorb and block.

However, there were always twangs of taint he would experience riding around the stadium. Always some dark emotion that triggered his attention. But he'd gotten used to experiencing such things, and with Riddle's help with Occlumency, his dark urges weren't pressing him to react immediately.

 _Immediately_ was the key word. His eyes _did_ linger on the sections that harbored especially tainted individuals. However, as soon as the game started, he forced his attention on his team.

He raced around the perimeter of the Pitch at breakneck speed, loving it, needing this. Beneath him, the crowd grew wild and he was glad Oliver Wood strongly suggested adults only. The booze was flowing a bit _too_ much and the amount of violence both teams executed, especially the Slytherins, was astounding. The two referees hardly called any fouls, though Oliver instructed them to make just a slight ruckus for the fans.

Harry smirked as he flew over the crowd.

Hermione had been right. There were many people wearing his old uniform. He even spotted his old teammates in the section reserved for professional athletes who'd come to cheer on and support their respected teammates. Harry had flown close to their proximity, earning a near-deafening cheer of encouragement.

Amusing, really, how much he'd missed this ridiculousness.

Another thing he noticed was the sheer amount of Krum uniforms in the stands. Well, that certainly wouldn't do. Harper was the Slytherin Seeker and Krum wouldn't see the Pitch unless something put Harper out of the game. Not only did Harry want the fans to get their money's worth, but most importantly, he wanted to show them that Krum wasn't as unbeatable as he appeared.

It was far more of a challenge, anyway. Harper had never posed as much of a threat during their time at Hogwarts.

Therefore, he had the task of getting rid of Harper. Considering the man tailed Harry like glue, it should be quite easy.

As soon as Slytherin scored their second consecutive goal, Harry suddenly directed his broom into the throng of players. He zigzagged through the action, dodging Bludgers and flustered Chasers. Everything became a blur as he maneuvered smoothly through the chaos.

"Potter has caught sight of the Snitch!" Lee Jordan roared over the intercom.

Ignoring the roar of both delight and disappointment, Harry dived. The wind tore at his hair and cloak, sending them whipping behind him. Harper followed close behind and Harry only pushed faster, further, steeper, encouraging the man to keep up with him.

Sick glee tore through him as he descended. He angled his broom as steep as it could go without making an idiot of himself and falling off. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Bludger race towards him. Without overcompensating, Harry maneuvered just to the right of it, feeling it breeze directly next to his cheek.

He descended. Harper followed.

The ground came up quickly and Harry pulled up just _inches_ from the ground, dangling his arm down and brushing the grass with his fingers. Behind him, a spasm of severe shock originated from Harper before _nothing_ as a body collided heavily with the ground.

Silence from the audience before they erupted with uninhabited cheers and shrieks of exhilaration.

 _Yes_ , Harry thought smugly, he still had it.

"And Potter performs a bloody wicked Wronski Feint! Unbelievable! Harper is _out_!" Referee whistles tore through the Pitch, desperately trying to sound over the unbridled crowd as they halted the game and took Harper out on a stretcher.

Harry lazily twirled his way up into the air. He supposed he should feel something akin to pity for Harper. The man had hit the ground at an alarming rate, but Harry had intended as much. As he stopped a good distance in the air, he watched through lowered lids as Harper disappeared and another green-clad Quidditch player took his place.

"Krum is in the game!"

Harry's smile grew larger, like a cat who'd swallowed his prey.

"The two youngest Seekers of our time will face off! One has to wonder if Potter had this up his sleeve!"

"Incredible," Ginny yelled as she came to an abrupt halt next to Harry. Her red hair settled in a wild halo around her flushed face. "It's like you never left the game, Harry!"

Harry simply grinned, his attention immediately turning to Krum. The stadium was at full volume as the Quidditch legend bypassed the group of huddling Slytherin players and made his way up toward Harry. His heavyset brows and curved nose immediately came into focus as he advanced like an overgrown bird.

"Harry Potter," he said in his thick, Bulgarian accent. "It is a pleasure to finally play opposite of you."

"Viktor Krum. Likewise," Harry contested, shaking the offered hand.

He didn't want to say anything cliché like he followed every step of Viktor Krum's Quidditch career, but he had. The man was a brilliant Seeker and an equally great flyer. It was understandable that Harry would find interest watching Krum's performances. After all, Quidditch _was_ Harry's line of work.

The two Seekers spoke no further, as they both acknowledged a worthy opponent whom they looked forward to destroy.

The game eventually resumed.

Gryffindor was down 70 to 110. The sheer number of Blatching and Blurting fouls grew too frequent for the referees to ignore. It appeared as if the Gryffindors were growing flustered at the fouls and began to play dirty themselves. Harry kept an eye out on his team while also monitoring Krum. Unlike Harper, the Bulgarian did not tail Harry.

It was far more of a challenge. He always did prefer a challenge.

Krum made Harry work. Occasionally, they'd fly side by side and twist through the commotion on the Pitch. Krum was just as fast as Harry was and just as tight with his maneuvers as Harry. His pulse raced as he competed with the Bulgarian, wondering when the last time he felt so _alive_ doing something so mundane and innocent.

Everything fell away at that moment. Stratton, Riddle, the torture with his parents, _Custos_ , Braun, Regbo, the Empathy. All of it. It just trickled away as if he'd never been burdened a day in his life.

If he hadn't been so hell-bent on revenge after his parents' murders, he firmly believed he would have recovered with Quidditch. Perhaps, had he given Quidditch more time after the disaster, he would have never taken the path of _Custos_. He wondered then, a brief, fleeting thought, if he could put everything behind him and try to start anew.

Without killing, without games.

But then he realized _Custos_ was so ingrained on his person, on his very core, that he could never shake that side of himself. Off the Pitch, he wouldn't be able to stop the dark instincts and the sheer depravity of hunting down the tainted.

No, it was too late for him.

As much as he wanted it to, the realization did not disappoint him in the least.

Harry circled around the Pitch, identifying Krum directly across from him. The Bulgarian had his eyebrows set, a type of determined expression he normally reserved when he spotted the Snitch. Harry knew that look. He'd seen it on the man during previous matches just before he curled his fingers over the golden ball.

A small, golden flash caught Harry's eye.

It danced tauntingly in the middle of the Pitch, as if aware of both Seekers' attention.

In a flurry of crimson robes, Harry dived, racing towards his target. If the Snitch stayed where it was, Harry and Krum would collide headfirst. And as soon as the thought occurred to him, the Snitch twitched and lowered nearer to the ground, closer to Krum.

Harry pressed himself flat against his broom and urged it to go faster.

Krum was going to bloody get it, he recognized. Fortunately, the Snitch came to an abrupt halt and danced away from Krum and toward Harry. It then dodged back to Krum again, torn over which direction to go.

Harry and Krum analyzed each other while closing in on the Snitch. Neither of them made the move to divert away from their course, a course that would end in a harmful collision. Unfortunately for Krum, Harry did not plan to pull up from his dive. He intended to get that damn Snitch, if only because Riddle supported Krum so bloody much.

Krum pushed harder. Harry pushed faster. Because he was the lighter male, he would undoubtedly receive more damage from the collision.

They closed in, and in the last second, the Snitch jerked upward. Harry's superior reflexes honed in on the golden Snitch and he made a grab for it just before Krum collided with him. Harry had lifted himself marginally so their heads wouldn't crack open, but in doing so, Krum's hulking shoulders lifted him from his broom.

His lithe body tumbled over Krum and flew through the air.

Fortunately, he wasn't so far up that the fall would knock him unconscious. He forced himself not to tumble acrobatically and land like a skilled combater, though it took a great deal of effort to do so. His fall to the ground was painful, his entire body protesting against the clumsy tumble.

He gazed across at Krum, pleased to find the Seeker off his broom as well. The other man looked around wildly before settling on Harry. His eyes widened as Harry stood and threw his arm in the air. Between his fingers, the Snitch fluttered enthusiastically. The crowd roared, yet Harry remained oblivious to them and Lee Jordan's commentary.

He was far more preoccupied with the sudden shift of atmosphere.

Lowering his arm, his smile faltered. Goose bumps raced down his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck stood. Something so _foul_ filled the air and Harry gagged, stumbling. His eyes darted around, ignoring the cheering and the smiling faces of both his teammates and fans.

Did they not feel it? Sense it?

"Potter!" Krum roared, strutting over. "Good game." The man struck out a hand and Harry could barely see it in his haze. "Potter?" he inquired, concerned. "You don't look well."

Harry's fingers opened up around the Snitch as a horrible taint, unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, closed in on him. Screams suddenly broke through the stands and Harry spied the frayed black figure drifting amongst the fans. A Dementor. Four of them, he realized. They were on opposite ends of the Pitch, their presence alone creating havoc.

They did not stray near the fans; however, they seemed to be drifting quickly in Harry's direction.

Harry's knees trembled before they buckled. He vomited on the ground, his Empathy ability utterly overwhelmed. Taint. So much taint. He could hear things he couldn't make sense of; screaming, crying, cruel laughter. Dementors made common victims relive their worse memories, but what would they do to an Empath?

Harry had never considered what would happen if he encountered a Dementor. He realized now, as they drifted towards him, that they were moving containers for several tainted souls. Criminal souls. Black souls. The worse sort of taint imaginable, all in one entity.

He could hear horrible memories that were not his own, but belonging to those that dwelled within the Dementors' bellies. Never before had Harry felt so hopeless, so weak. His legs did not move and he could do nothing but shudder and tremble, reverting to the state he was just after his parents' death.

Someone pulled at his arm, to try to get him to _move_ , but Harry stayed rooted to the spot. Emotions overwhelmed him, choked him, and destabilized him. His throat was raw from screaming, and his eyes had shut long ago, yet he knew the Dementors were close. He doubted he'd ever come out of this sane.

Soon, the cold and the taint grew intolerable.

He slipped unconscious, utterly unaware of the stunned observation of Kingsley Shacklebolt.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Milleniumdevil and all others who have/had finals. I hope they went well A huge, huge thank you to those of you who reviewed last chapter. I appreciate it so very much! It's what keeps this story going.
> 
> Kind of (not really) another cliffhanger this chapter. No worries, I plan to pick up next chapter right where this one ends. So we will be getting more Tom/Harry interaction ;)
> 
> .
> 
> Enjoy. Sorry for the typos/grammar mistakes!
> 
> .

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"Auror Shacklebolt."

Kingsley turned, surprised to see Minister Riddle standing in the doorway to his office. He tried to mask his guilty expression, least the powerful politician suspect Kingsley's mistrust. He did not trust many nowadays, least of all Riddle. The man's waning interest in the _Custos_ case seemed far too suspicious for his tastes.

"Minister Riddle," Kingsley greeted, allowing his surprise to leak through just the appropriate amount. He cleared his throat and sat behind his desk, motioning to the seat opposite of him. "I hadn't expected you to be here so late."

Indeed, it was a late hour. All but a few of the night-shift Aurors had gone home for the night. Dim lighting cast the office in an eerie, yet warm glow. The silence was what Kingsley preferred. He got work done with minimal interruptions, and with a case to solve this substantial, working late was essential.

With his hand placed nonchalantly in his trouser pocket, the Minister stood smartly in the doorway. "I could say the same thing about you, Auror. If I recall, you have a wife at home. Surely all these late nights cannot be good for a marriage." A thin, serpentine smile curled Riddle's lips. "Or perhaps that is why you choose to be here instead of there."

Kingsley dropped the arm that invited Riddle to sit, knowing the man hadn't come to stay and chat. Gone were the pleasantries. "I have a case to solve," he replied tonelessly, far more insulted with Riddle's comment than he'd like to admit. His marriage _was_ on the rocks. Trust Riddle to delve into something so personal.

" _Custos_ ," Riddle droned, "Yes, he remains elusive, but that is not why I'm here."

Leaning back in his chair, Kingsley stared levelly at Riddle. "Then by all means—"

"The Dementors at the Quidditch game were Ministry-issued." Riddle let the information sink in before continuing. "The only way for those Dementors to be released is if a Ministry official removed the barrier in the execution chambers. We have Surveillance Charms on those chambers, Shacklebolt."

Kingsley raised his eyebrows. Despite the weight in his stomach, he remained controlled. "And?" he coaxed after a long pause. "Who was the identity of the wizard or witch who released them?" He suddenly leaned forward, intrigued. "And _why_?"

The Quidditch game had been entertaining, Kingsley would appreciatively admit to as much. Besides trying to break up the occasional brawl, he'd enjoyed watching the throwback match between Slytherin and Gryffindor. The truly noteworthy event, however, besides Potter's spectacular catch, was Potter's alarming reaction to the Dementors.

And the Dementors themselves.

Just seeing the creatures appear on the Pitch had reminded Kingsley of the letter he received in his office. The anonymous sender had hinted about an Empath's reaction to a Dementor. Ironically enough, they appeared at a _Quidditch_ match of all places. He could not ignore the irony in that.

"The _why_ remains elusive, Kingsley," Riddle supplied after a lengthy pause. "The _who_ was easily identified after watching the surveillance." The man's brown eyes hardened. "Imagine my surprise when I saw a high-ranking Auror release the Dementors."

Kingsley sat up, his coy persona falling way to unfiltered surprise. "Who?"

Not one of his men. It couldn't be.

"You."

Blinking, Kingsley exhaled heavily. The sound of his breathing was abnormally loud in the office as he digested Riddle's assertion. "That is impossible," he rebuked. "You're lying." His pulse raced extensively. It truly was impossible. He had _no_ recollection.

Riddle's eyes pierced straight through Kingsley and left him breathless. "Such a juvenile reproof, Kingsley." His mouth twisted cruelly. "I'm afraid that I am not _lying_ , nor would I find entertainment in framing one of my most trusted Aurors. You know, just as well as I, that our Surveillance Charms cannot be manipulated."

He knew that. Of course he knew that.

Kingsley shifted in his chair and spread his hands upon his desk. The hairs on his body stood on end at the implications of the situation. "I did not release those Dementors." He lifted his chin and looked levelly at the Minister. "What gain would I possibly achieve by setting them loose?"

He endured Riddle's intense scrutiny.

"What gain, indeed? You are hiding something, Auror Shacklebolt." The Minister's expression softened into blasé indifference. "But I believe you did not _willingly_ release the Dementors. This can stay between the two of us. For now." He looked around Kingsley's office before settling his eyes back on the Auror. "Do take care. And practice constant vigilance."

The tall, slender wizard turned his back and Kingsley furrowed his brow.

"Now whose hiding things?" he barked out in question, rising from his seat. Bracing his hands on the desk, he leaned forward and used his height as intimidation. "You expect me to believe you will sweep this under the rug? It's a criminal offense. Either you know exactly who framed me or you are keeping this incident as future blackmail."

His blood turned cold as Riddle slowly turned his head, inclining it in a way that reminded Kingsley of a patient predator.

"You have nothing I want, Mr. Shacklebolt; therefore, it surely is not about blackmail, is it?"

"Then who is it?" Kingsley demanded. He licked his lips, realizing that Riddle knew the identity of the one responsible. "I have no recollection of releasing the Dementors. Whomever did this, they are extremely dangerous and powerful—"

"No need to worry yourself."

Kingsley saw red as Riddle dismissed him. "I have informed the Wizengamot." His confession caused the man to take pause once again. "I have informed members of the Wizengamot about my progress with the _Custos_ case. They are entirely up to date on all the evidence I've gathered and all my speculations. I have also informed several trusted individuals whom should remain nameless."

Riddle turned again, this time, his eyebrows lifted with polite interest. "A job well done."

Kingsley curled his hands into fists. The Minister was entirely unnerving when it came to gauging his reactions. Either the Minister was clueless to Kingsley's subtle threat, or he was truly innocent in the _Custos_ case. It could be either of those scenarios, a number of scenarios, yet he found no hint of answer on Riddle's expression.

He reigned in his temper and sat back down. "Forgive me for being ill-mannered, Minister."

He'd wanted Riddle to know that others were aware of the going ons in the Department, least the man get ideas of eliminating or _Obliviating_ Kingsley. It was a defensive move; one he hoped would dissuade Riddle from doing something underhanded.

Only, Riddle acted as if it were a brilliant idea.

Damn Slytherins! He had to remind himself that he was _not_ a Slytherin and his specialty was not mind games. He was not cunning, nor was he manipulative. Though Kingsley had his suspicions about Riddle, he did not have any _proof_. His best bet was to continue his investigation into _Custos'_ identity and then piece together the rest.

Hard evidence and his speculations were his specialties.

"But you must understand my… misgivings about your persistence to keep the identity of this man a secret." Kingsley looked at Riddle firmly, speaking the utmost truth. "Someone who harnesses the power to _use_ me and my body without a trace is unfathomable to me. It makes my skin crawl."

"The identity of anyone in this madness eludes me, Auror Shacklebolt." Riddle shook his head sadly. "Do try to keep alert." His eyes landed on the parchments upon Kingsley's desk. "Any further leads on the _Custos_ case?"

Kingsley stiffened. "Yes, actually." He pressed his lips together and smiled. "Many leads. All leading to one, specific young man." He smiled, a true smile as Riddle gazed at him steadily. "I've told—"

"The Wizengamot, I presume? And your other trusted individuals?"

"Yes."

Riddle held his gaze. "I am sure you've found yourself a true lead this time. Good work."

Kingsley deflated at the unpredicted response. He watched Riddle leave his office without saying another word, without asking after Kingsley's lead. The man was entirely unpredictable. It would be interesting to have Riddle in the proximity when he called Harry Potter in for questioning.

Making sure he was truly alone, Kingsley reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.

Pouring himself a hefty amount, Kingsley sipped the amber liquor, contemplating the file in front of him. William Stratton. The therapist was not a therapist, how conveniently cliché. In fact, there was no paper trail for William C. Stratton besides the fake psychiatrist credentials and license.

Potter's alibi for Grey's murder suddenly became null.

Twirling his glass around his fingertips, Kingsley brooded. Potter was a good kid, he truly was. James and Lily were very bright, well-respected citizens of the Wizarding world. They raised a fine young man. However, after thinking long and hard about the case, about Potter being his man, it finally all _fit._

_Custos_ saw a flaw in the legal system. Whether Kingsley agreed with that logic or not, it did not stop the fact that Remus Lupin, the suspect responsible for the murder of the Potters, walked free. Something terrible happened with the Potter family, something horrific. Kingsley did not know the details and they were never recorded.

Harry failed in indicting Lupin. If the boy went through something so tragic, and the killer walked away, that would give him enough desire to _become Custos._ He would want to help others in the same situation. As fate would have it, _Custos_ became a threat after Lily and James died.

In addition to the aligned timeline, _Custos_ and Hermione Granger were connected. She was the lead prosecutor in the cases involving _Custos'_ victims. Straight from Granger's mouth, she confirmed sharing details of her cases with her friends, particularly Potter.

_Custos_ was also of average height for a male, if not a bit shorter. Potter was just that. Kingsley also noticed the boy's incredible reflexes on the Quidditch field. For being out of practice, the boy was impressively sharp.

_Custos_ also knew Muggle defense, and according to the bruise patterns on some victims, he even knew some Auror training. Potter had Sirius Black and Ron Weasley to teach him defensive moves. Above all else, Kingsley discovered Dudley Dursley, a Muggle cousin of Potter. The young Muggle was a karate instructor and a boxer. If Kingsley questioned the boy, he'd be willing to bet the two cousins reconnected after the death of Lily and James.

In the beginning, Riddle had been interested in Potter and vice versa. Kingsley remembered it vividly. The two were similar to children, poking one another, and even involving Kingsley in their feud. He remembered accompanying Black and Potter to the Minister's office that morning, chastising Riddle for threatening Granger and harassing Potter.

Furthermore, August Grey! That whole situation had been too convenient. Potter ran the Quidditch youth camp and the murder transpired there. He'd returned after his _therapy_ session just in time to find August hiding in the stands. The young child, who'd experienced sexual assault, seemed unusually attached to Potter –a complete stranger—the evening of the attack.

Moreover, Ashley Locke described feeling _safe_ with _Custos_ in the midst of her capture and torture. He remembered, vaguely, that Riddle had physically shifted in response to Locke's description. Even back then, the Minister had known _Custos_ was an Empath.

Kingsley sighed heavily and took a large swig of liquor.

If what he thought was true, it not only connected so many pieces, but it unnerved him. Potter…

_Potter._

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Potter was a snake in lion clothing. He did a marvelous job of hiding who he was and avoiding the stereotypical traits of a serial killer. At least in public, he was not arrogant. He did not hold a position of power during the day. He was a charming boy with wildly unkempt hair. He even had a limp.

But all that was convenient, wasn't it?

"God damnit, Potter!"

He was an antihero. A vigilante. He saved people, and yet, he killed people.

He was the worst sort of criminal, only because he challenged one's morals. The public sympathized with him. Hell, Kingsley sympathized with him on some occasions. He had the right idea, just not the right execution and endgame. Though he wiggled his way into the hearts of hundreds, he was still a criminal.

Kingsley's job was to put away criminals.

To give them a Kiss. To put them behind bars.

It was hard imagining Potter soulless or rotting in a cell. Not only because he was a sympathetic criminal, but because Kingsley felt as if he'd betray James.

If Kingsley was right, and Potter was _Custos,_ he knew he had to tread carefully. Potter was very similar to Riddle in that both of them were sly and cunning bastards. There was more to them than what met the eye. In addition, Kingsley had no idea how much Riddle was involved with Potter's antics. Were they working together? Were they allies? Enemies?

Not only that, but there was now a third player in this madness. Someone who wanted Potter caught. A player who had used Kingsley's identity or even Kingsley's _body_ without setting off a single alarm. It was unnerving.

It was a mess. A very sticky mess.

He needed to continue updating his trusted allies about the case. If anything happened to him, they needed to pick up where he left off. But just how big was this? How messy?

No matter.

Kingsley swirled his drink around and took another swig.

He had to press forward. As must as he sympathized with _Custos,_ he knew the serial killer's methods were wrong. The man could change tactics with a drop of a hat and they would have bigger issues than murdered scumbags. Kingsley swore an oath he'd protect the citizens of Britain, even if it was against the son of a once trusted colleague.

Moreover, at the end of the day, when doubts and regrets reared their ugly head, well, that was why he kept bourbon.

As he tipped back another shot of liquor, he flinched when a parchment floated on top his desk. Slowly, he lowered his tumbler and leaned forward, his pulse racing. His wand slipped from its holster and he held it aloft, ready in case the parchment self-destructed or proved dangerous.

Familiar, loopy blue ink stared up at him.

_Congratulations on your performance today, Auror Shacklebolt. Releasing the Dementors certainly proved to be an eye-opening experience for you and a trying day for Harry Potter. Let us try something a bit more gut wrenching, shall we? Remus Lupin walked away free from a double homicide and took up residence with a powerful werewolf pack. Though he is protected, he is not exempt from the law._

_What better way to crack Harry Potter's clever guise than by opening old wounds? Call Lupin and Potter in for questioning at the same time. Let them reunite and observe. A word of caution, however, do keep Lupin safe. The last thing you need is a werewolf death on Ministry grounds._

Kingsley slumped back and stared unseeingly at the parchment.

**. . Dreams. .**

"Where do you think you're going?"

Harry stopped in the dark corridor and smiled at the far wall. It was a wary, ironic leer, a small effort to muffle his rising impatience. He turned, watching the redheaded female walk down the hall to meet him. "Out," he responded stiffly, trying in vain to lighten his tone for her.

Ginny frowned. "You should be resting."

His fingertips ghosted over the pinpricks on his arms from the needles. They'd injected him with some form of Pepper-Up potion and calming draughts when he was unconscious. He'd slept for hours, dead to the world. He hadn't liked that. He hadn't enjoyed waking up to the sterile environment of the hospital. It reminded him of past ghosts, memories he needed to keep under control.

It made him feel weak.

"Resting? From what?" Harry inclined his head and looked down at her. "Dementors?"

She gave him the look. That look. "You had a serious reaction—"

"I've had serious and horrible events in my past, Ginny. Of course I reacted negatively to the Dementors when they were swarming around us."

"They weren't even close to you, Harry!"

That gave Harry pause. "They were right around me," he argued softly, losing his impatience, his edge.

Ginny sighed, losing her own vigor. "They weren't," she whispered. "They skirted right past you a good distance away and didn't even think twice to circle back around. You were screaming and convulsing, Harry." Her eyes softened. "We were worried and we completely understand why it happened. But it just means you haven't fully recovered from what happened."

That was news to him. He had thought the Dementors were so close. He'd felt their cold, cruel presence and their taint…

He shuddered and looked away, hiding his vulnerability. His mind didn't feel right. _He_ didn't feel right. It was not an easy memory to recall, but they'd pumped him so full of sedatives and Calming Draughts, he couldn't quite feel the appropriate response to the situation.

"I don't think I will ever recover. It's not something you can easily forget, Gin."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." She shrugged anxiously, bringing Harry's attention back on her. "You have changed. I thought, for a brief moment, that you were back to your old self. And it was selfish of me to think so." She smiled in the dark, a sad, miserable smile. "I wanted you to be the old Harry _so much_."

Harry stiffened. He thought he achieved being the old Harry to those close to him. It was the only reason he _tried_ to be someone he wasn't, to keep them satisfied and happy. As it turned out, Ginny and Hermione saw right through him.

"But I've acknowledged that it isn't fair to you, and above all else, it isn't fair to me." She lifted her chin. "I will always love you, Harry, but I've decided not to keep waiting. I deserve someone who is willing to be just as happy as I am in the relationship."

He stared stonily at her, pleased at the words, but entirely curious at the strange and alien confidence originating from her. Ginny was always confident, always fiery and stubborn. However, there was something off about her right then, almost like an echo in her emotions. Like a compulsion.

He grimaced. He didn't understand it.

"And _you,_ Harry,deserve someone who can confidently keep up with you. Who can embrace this new you."

The words were not Ginny. They were similar to…

_Riddle_.

Green eyes narrowed, pleased despite himself at the discovery. My, my, Riddle got his hands dirty, didn't he? Such a powerful and influential man sinking so low and playing with Ginny, a minor player in the scheme of things. Something satisfied Harry immensely about a jealous and possessive Tom Riddle, who'd go so far and give Ginny a boost of confidence in terms of relationships.

A brief part of him wondered if Riddle did more to her, but he disregarded that notion.

Riddle's main goal would be to create a firm break between Harry and Ginny, not piss Harry off. Still, he had to savor this and store it away for future use. This was a weakness on Riddle's behalf. Possessiveness, jealousy, and obsession were all emotions that would get Riddle into trouble if Harry chose to wield that weapon.

"Harry?"

At the prompt, Harry leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry for leading you along, Ginny, but you're right. About everything." He pulled back and smiled at her. "We both thought we could recapture something from the past, something that was no longer there. No matter how much we try, it would be a lie."

Pushing all thoughts of Riddle aside, he allowed a true flicker of affection warm his chest. He would always care for Ginny and always strive to protect her. She would have been the perfect companion. A part of him mourned that path taken from him, a path he could never take.

While bittersweet, this was exactly what needed to happen.

Grabbing her hand, he kissed the back of her palm. "Thank you."

She seemed relieved at his response. "Go before mum catches you out of bed."

He smirked and sauntered down the corridor, mindful of her close observation. This was for the best. Not only did it mean he could play with Riddle without the guilt, but because Ginny deserved better. He would have parted ways eventually, but somehow, having Ginny do it herself, with or without Riddle's manipulation, seemed better closure.

It was her decision, her happiness, and Harry wanted nothing more than for her to be content.

**. . & Darkness. .**

He knew there were many things to do before the situation escalated.

Things did not feel right. There was a sense of heaviness in the air, as if change was on the horizon. It felt a bit odd to make amends with Hermione _and_ Ginny all in the same day. Yet, Harry _had_ acknowledged that this would eventually happen. Someone would identify him as _Custos._

Those Dementors weren't a fluke. No matter what spin someone put on it, their presence during the Quidditch match was all too ironic. His unorthodox reaction to the Dementors was also telling. Moreover, in addition to the Dementors, the observable Auror trailing Harry confirmed Kingsley's refocused suspicions.

It would be soon, he knew. There were things to do and pieces to move.

The most important thing Harry wanted to accomplish before his anticipated capture was to take advantage of Riddle. The man bargained for Harry's services by offering to find those responsible for the death of his parents. Riddle confirmed they'd visit Jarvis in the morning, but Harry wanted it _now._

Dressed in his usual hunting garb, Harry moved fluidly in the shadows of Riddle's manor. It was empty for the most part, only crossing paths with a few unaware wizards. For all their egotism of being a part of a 'superior' flock of wizards, Harry could have killed them instantly without them even knowing.

It was why he scoffed at them. Trust the arrogant to be the most ignorant.

He was silent as he entered Riddle's study. The lighting was dim and it was eerily silent save for the crackling fire. His eyes zeroed in on the back of Riddle's head as the man sat crossed-legged upon an armchair. An empty, long-stemmed glass tilted perilously from lazy fingers as the man extended it away from him.

The Dark Lord had his back to Harry, yet he was totally aware of his presence.

A mirror across the room reflected Harry's approaching figure with clarity. He stopped advancing, catching the eyes of Riddle through the mirror. They were especially bright that evening, looking redder and far more deceitful. The man's expression was expectant, yet borderline fascinated.

"I admire your stealth," he commented silkily. "It is beautiful and so very inimitable."

"Yet, not stealthy enough to catch you unawares."

Riddle smiled thinly. "Do not think my wards permitted you inside out of the goodness of their heart." He looked down and away from Harry, contemplating his empty glass. "I did not expect you here tonight, though I am pleased to see you." The tall form unfolded itself from the couch.

He turned and observed Harry, looking for flaws, looking for weaknesses. Slowly, Riddle set down his glass and approached him. His eyes remained intense as he came to a stop directly in front of the younger wizard.

Harry frowned as Riddle closed the distance and pressed his lips against his. A cold hand pressed against his cheek and deepened the kiss, but before Harry could properly return it, Riddle pulled away.

The ice-like hand dropped to his jaw, and that was Harry's only warning before Riddle plunged inside his mind.

The Great Hall, the heart of his mind, flickered into existence before Harry frantically set up his barriers. Riddle took on the form of a black mist as Harry brought him through a crowded game on the school's Quidditch Pitch. Riddle zigzagged through the players, easily bypassing the chaos and the defenses of his mind.

Flying straight over the stands, Riddle quickly bypassed the lunging Giant Squid before circling back into the entrance of Hogwarts. The corridors shifted on the Dark Lord, hoping to resist his invasion, however, broken glass still littered the floors and the hallways were dark and dank. Screams and gasps of pain sounded throughout the castle as Harry forced Riddle down into the dungeons.

Portraits that were meant to be barricades were utterly useless as Riddle zoomed straight past. Broken and fragmented memories wandered the hallways, and as Riddle phased through them, Harry experienced a jolt of pain and emotional turmoil.

His mind crumbled and Riddle suddenly pulled Harry into the Great Hall.

"A far better defense than our first attempt at Occlumency," Riddle praised in his own, condescending way. At the Head Table, Dumbledore lifted his goblet in agreement. "It leaves much to be desired, however. Regbo would have a field day controlling you as his personal puppet."

Harry tried to control his heavy breathing and steady his racing pulse. "Brilliant."

Riddle appeared unamused at Harry's nonchalance. Slowly, the Great Hall bled away and they were back in Riddle's study. The Dark Lord turned his back on Harry and waved his hand towards the fireplace. The flames roared as they brightened and intensified, instantly warming the cold room.

"It doesn't appear as if there was lasting damage from the Dementors." With a raised eyebrow, Riddle looked pointedly at Harry. "You need to meditate tonight."

"I have other plans."

"Nothing is more important than strengthening your mind. You experienced firsthand what happens when an Empath's mind is unprotected around Dementors."

Harry flashed his teeth. "Then let's hope they give me a Kiss instead of letting me rot in Azkaban."

That gave Riddle pause. Crimson eyes appeared nearly bored as they levelled Harry with a disapproving stare. "It is amusing you think I'd let you go that easily. Now." He motioned to the chair opposite of him. "Sit. Tell me what you have planned tonight that takes precedence over healing and enforcing your mind."

Moving away from the doorway, Harry circled around the pair of armchairs, choosing to stand behind one rather than sit. "You're taking me to Roland Jarvis tonight." He placed a hand on the headrest when Riddle continued to stare silently. "I need answers now, Riddle. You promised this in return for Braun's life."

"What is the hurry? It is nearly midnight."

Harry's eyes narrowed into slits. "First off, you are a Dark Lord. You do not wait until after noon and knock politely at someone's door. Secondly, there is this _astounding_ element called times zones. He's in America—"

"Potter," Riddle interrupted levelly, though there was a hint of warning. "What has caused this impatience?" He repeated the question firmly, clearly not charmed at Harry's sarcasm.

Exhaling through his nose, he tore his eyes away from Riddle's blank façade and towards the fire. He contemplated his words, on what he'd share and what he'd keep to himself. Though his relationship with Riddle grew stronger, fonder, he still didn't know how far he could trust the man.

"I've told you that I don't expect to be a free man forever." He turned back to Riddle. "Hopefully, I will be a dead man before becoming an Azkaban inmate. With that said, I'd like to bury past skeletons. I need to know who killed and tortured my mother and father."

Red eyes brightened. "You are aware of Kingsley's refocused suspicions."

"As you clearly are?" Harry countered, wary.

"And you're worried he will find enough evidence to successfully convict you?" Riddle appeared amused, easily bypassing Harry's question. "You give him far too much credit."

"I prefer being realistic."

Something similar to a scoff sounded from Riddle, but the man was far too eloquent to make a sound like that. He pushed off from the armchair and approached the fireplace mantle. "I visited Kingsley this evening. He was nearly wet with excitement over his recent findings." Flames reflected off the man's porcelain skin. "He was responsible for the Dementors at the Quidditch game."

For a moment, Harry didn't think he heard correctly. "Kingsley Shacklebolt?" he spluttered, an inane chuckle escaping his lips. The idea was absurd and laughable! "The man who has never straddled the line between good and evil? I find that extremely doubtful."

"As you should." Riddle reached towards the flames. They heightened and eagerly licked his fingers, yet they did not burn him. Like most things, the flames were compliant and powerless to Riddle's commands. "He was a mere puppet."

"Of Regbo." Harry stiffened. "Regbo is a—"

"Master of the mind just as you are the master of emotion. He wants the world to find out your identity. He believes having the law enforcement hunt you will leave you defenseless. I, on the other hand, think it will strengthen you. You would not be split between two identities, two masks."

"Regbo," Harry said again, drawing the conversation back around. They had never addressed this after Braun's murder. "Is something you and I need to discuss. You know him. You know about him. The man can control people on whim. _Groups_ of people." He remembered Riddle once acknowledging Regbo as a threat. "Why is he even interested in me?"

Stratton. The man warned Harry away from Regbo. He told Harry that Riddle was the only one capable of dealing with him. It left a sour taste in Harry's mouth, to know someone was out there that he couldn't _touch._

"That is a question even I ask myself," Riddle stated.

Harry held his tongue and studied Riddle's side profile. For one, inane second, he appreciated the sight. The unearthly orange flames amplified his red eyes and his sharp, aristocratic facial planes. No matter what the man did, seductive darkness cloaked his person. Harry continued watching, wondering why he wanted to forget everything, just for a second, and explore Riddle's body.

"I also ask the question as to why you didn't tell me Stratton was not a true therapist." Riddle's hand splayed into the flames, turning them a brilliant blue. "Who is he to you?"

"Jealousy does not suit you."

_Though it is delicious._

Harry did not know how Riddle discovered Stratton's deceit. What he did realize, however, was that Riddle was not all knowing. The older wizard was unreadable the majority of the time, but Harry knew Riddle truly did not know the reason behind Regbo's interest. Moreover, while he knew about Stratton not being a therapist, he didn't know the extent of the betrayal.

But why should he? Only Harry and Stratton knew the extent of what transpired.

The Dark Lord suddenly made a fist and the flames extinguished. "You want your answers from Jarvis." He turned and approached Harry in the dark. "Then I will give you that much."

Stiffening, Harry allowed the hand to curl around his bicep in a bruising hold. A sharp tug pulled him through time and space and Riddle did not muffle the jarring ride of Side-Along Apparition. It was a long distance to travel, as they crossed continents, yet as they landed, Riddle hardly appeared affected.

Harry steadied himself, least he move abruptly and stumble like an idiot.

"Shall we knock politely at the door?" Riddle mused sarcastically, recalling Harry's earlier words. "Or shall we force ourselves inside because I'm a Dark Lord?"

"If I wasn't here, what would you do?"

Something seemed to amuse the Dark Lord a great deal. "Perhaps we should knock first and then reanalyze our options afterwards."

Riddle breezed past him and walked down the cobblestone path. Long grass and weeds grew between each stone and near the broken picket fence. The home was more like a rundown cottage in need of major repairs. Brilliant green moss claimed the majority of the roof's shingles and the windows appeared cracked and worn.

A distinct smell of cooking meat wafted in the air. Considering this was the only home within the heavy woods, Harry considered it a sign of Jarvis' presence. Rusty tools and an open paint can sat near a worn shed, appearing recently painted. Everything seemed mundane and Muggle.

Parker Quills, the old Unspeakable Harry questioned earlier, claimed Roland Jarvis was a miserable old coot.

Judging from the exterior of his property, Harry was underwhelmed.

Riddle knocked sharply, the entire front door rattling as consequence. He seemed especially out of place on the cracked stoop, so proud, so dominant. "Perhaps, with these recent events, it would be prudent to bond with that weapon I gave you."

Harry refocused his eyes on Riddle. There hadn't been _time_ to bond with the wand sinceHarry received it, yet he held his tongue. There was more to Riddle's suggestion. Did the Dark Lord sense the change in the air as well? Despite critiquing Kingsley's competence, did the man expect something underhanded? Or was it Regbo that spurred the comment?

When no answer came from inside, Riddle withdrew his wand.

"Stop," Harry ordered, having caught sight of the smoke coming from the backyard.

He backtracked down the front porch and wandered around the side of the house. Riddle instantly appeared beside him, noticeably putting himself before Harry. The younger wizard's mouth twisted with revulsion. He could handle himself. He didn't need Riddle's smothering protection.

As they rounded the corner, Harry deflated and slowed his advance to a lazy saunter.

An old man fiddled with a bonfire, observing the temperature of the wild turkey roasting above the flames. At their advance, he looked up, his expression screwing up with distaste. "Wizards!" he barked. "I don't want to talk to you lot."

"Charming," Riddle observed quietly.

"Not everyone can be as amiable as you, Minister." To Jarvis Harry lifted a hand, revealing that he was defenseless. "Roland Jarvis? We just had a few questions for you." He stopped across the fire, admiring the man's sour expression as he scrutinized Riddle.

The man's milky grey eyes then settled on Harry and stayed there for a few long seconds. "Potter." He grunted and sat down, appearing exhausted and out of breath. "You look just like your folks. I heard about them. Pity." Lifting a hand, he motioned to his surroundings. "I don't get messed up in that anymore. It's why I surround myself with trees instead of people."

Harry approached Jarvis, eyeing the wild, wispy white hair and imagining a mad scientist. "You were an American Unspeakable with my mother. I need answers to what happened to her."

Jarvis looked at Harry from the corner of his eye, completely unhappy. "I worked as an American Unspeakable, yes. I employed your mother, yes. But her last occupancy was not as an Unspeakable of any jurisdiction."

"That's—"

"Shocking?" Jarvis interrupted. He laughed once. "There was a covert group assembled with Unspeakables who possessed strong intellect and magical prowess. Most importantly, it was for those who had questionable moral codes and a willingness to do the unethical. Your mother volunteered along with her wolf friend."

"Remus Lupin," Harry supplied darkly. He'd known they worked together, just not in this capacity.

"That's him." Jarvis grimaced. "They were monkeying around with things they shouldn't have. It's a real shame hearing what happened to them, but their talent for the impossible put them in that position."

Harry turned and glanced at Riddle from over her shoulder, noticing the distance the man kept. The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow under Harry's observation, appearing content with remaining silent. This was Harry's deal, after all, his investigation.

"Them?" Harry inquired, turning back to the retired Unspeakable. He observed the man's taint, surprised to find him relatively pure. No particular emotions pointed towards guilt, so the man was honest in his answers. He seemed detached, though, as if it were a heavy burden.

Roland shoved a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. "Yes, boy, _them_. All the members of the covert group were murdered. Killed. Slaughtered like animals!" He grabbed a stick and poked harshly at the fire. "All those men and women were once my employees. I trained most of them. Cared for all of them."

Grief and bitter remembrance swelled and smoldered from Jarvis. Harry grimaced at the taste of the familiar emotions. Fortunately, the man was forthcoming, something Harry hadn't expected. "Do you know what they were doing? Who was leading it? Any sort of clue would be helpful."

Jarvis stopped poking at the fire and slowly turned to look at Harry. He then eyed the silent and observing Riddle. "Don't go poking your nose into that mess."

"I lived through that mess," Harry whispered darkly. "I have more right than anyone to poke my nose in that _mess_."

"Bah!" The old Unspeakable threw down his stick and stood up. "I don't know anything. It was covert." He wiped his palms across his shirt, leaving dirt stains across the white fabric. "I knew to stay out of that mess." Observing Harry's stubborn expression, Jarvis sighed. "The only thing I do know is that the group was financed by a Brit with a peculiar name."

"Regbo?" he asked, suddenly hopeful. It would explain many things—

"No."

Harry sneered.

"It was financed by someone who goes by the name of Voldemort. I think he was behind it. Behind establishing the group."

Harry's ears twitched at the alien name. "Voldemort?"

He turned abruptly towards Riddle, surprised at the icy impassiveness on the man's face. If anyone would know a British wizard with money, it would be Riddle. However, the name _Voldemort_ seemed just as much an alias as _Custos._

Riddle crossed his hands calmly in front of his body and shook his head. "It does not sound familiar."

Harry stored the name away, memorizing it, repeatedly chanting it until it ingrained in his very subconscious. Voldemort. Lupin. He had two names. Two very distinct and memorable names. They would have answers to all his questions. One, he knew was directly responsible, the other, he would need to investigate further.

"That's all I know, boy," Jarvis informed briskly at Harry's penetrating stare.

"I'll be back if that proves untrue."

Turning, he challenged Riddle, daring the man to kill Jarvis just as he killed Parker Quills. The Dark Lord merely held out his hand, however, waiting for Harry to grab it for Side-Along Apparition. Before he took a hold of Riddle's arm, he glanced back at Jarvis, grimacing at the man's look of deep melancholy.

Ghosts were inescapable to some men. No matter how much time passed or how much healing transpired, some men just felt tragedy more than others did. They would never succeed in shaking those memories or healing those wounds. They would fight strenuously against past demons until death finally ended their fragile, empty lives.

With sinking clarity, Harry realized he didn't want to be like those men anymore.


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had a lemon planned this chapter and then decided against it. This story has twisted so out of my control, it's not even funny. A bit sad, actually. I feel all over the place with this! Any who, thanks to each and every ONE of you who took the time and reviewed last chapter. You don't know how much I appreciate that.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Warnings: Typos/Grammar errors… It's late and I'm exhausted, but I wanted to get this out.

**23\. Chapter Twenty-Three**

"It is unlikely he will know anything."

Harry turned inquisitively towards Riddle once they arrived back in the man's study. Only, they weren't in the study, but a large bedroom suite. He stiffened at the sight of the enormous, four-poster bed and the dark, satin sheets. "Riddle," he addressed slowly, firmly. "I am not sleeping with you."

"This _Voldemort_ ," Riddle continued without missing a beat, "Was most likely controlling things from so far up the food chain, he probably did not even know the identities of this exclusive group." The man's tall frame folded elegantly into one of the divans across the room. "His alias will make it difficult to pinpoint his true identity."

Harry stood solitarily in the middle of the room, suddenly exhausted.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his mother's locket. The gold jewelry gleamed smartly in the well-lit room. "I've been chasing my tail since the moment my parents stopped breathing. The number of dead ends I've hit is just _sad_ and utterly strenuous."

He thought back to Jarvis, the old, bitter Unspeakable. His thirst for vengeance had tempered somewhat as he thought how pathetic that emotion made someone look.

"William Stratton had this on him when he left my flat." Harry stared at the twirling locket. "It was my mothers. Inside is a lock of her hair. He kept it as either an endearment or a trophy." His lips twisted. "I just found out he wasn't a therapist, Riddle. Every available chance I've had, I've been looking for him. I know he isn't in Britain. I've even tried lifting his fingerprints from the locket and tracing him that way. Nothing."

Closing his fingers around the locket, he looked up at Riddle, taken aback at the intensity of the man's stare.

With his elbow propped against the armrest, and a long, spidery hand resting articulately against the side of his face, Riddle focused on Harry with single-minded concentration. It was more of a smolder, really. For once in his life, Harry faltered opposite of Riddle, feeling smaller than he'd felt in a long time.

Straightening, and forcing himself taller, Harry pocketed the locket. "What _is_ it?"

Riddle's eyes unfocused slightly and his eyebrow quirked marginally. "Simply trying to piece things together, Harry."

And the staring and silence continued.

Harry released a low hiss of breath and approached the Dark Lord. "Care to share those engrossing theories?" Something hot and furious ticked at his temple at the man's calculating silence. "After only a couple months of knowing my situation, you have everything worked out perfectly, don't you, Riddle?"

Despite the sarcasm, Riddle responded neutrally. "Once I know anything concrete, I will let you know."

The man didn't know anything. How could he?

As if exuding confidence, Riddle leaned further against the couch and lifted his chin, baring his throat in a subconscious gesture of submission. Although, perhaps it wasn't a subconscious gesture at all. Perhaps it was an entirely intended move on Riddle's part, for Harry's eyes instantly zeroed in on the pale throat and he felt something inside him stir.

Coupled with his frustration and his lack of sleep, Harry found himself _enthralled._

His fingers twitched at his sides as a large part of him wanted to claim and dominate. "You're always trying to get one step ahead of everyone, aren't you?" Harry inquired quietly. "Always preplanning, always moving your pieces just at the right time. Like what you did with Ginny."

Riddle remained completely blasé as he lifted his arms and placed them behind his head. His legs stretched lazily in front of him as he maintained direct eye contact with Harry. "It worked out in both our favors, I believe." The man's mouth parted before curling into a self-satisfied smirk. "Don't you think? Harry?"

Harry's fingers curled with unwanted satisfaction. Riddle hardly flinched at the mention of Ginny, hardly seemed guilty. If anything, the man was proud of himself for tampering with the pawn standing in his way. The Dark Lord's preening on such a twisted act somehow aroused the darkest recess of Harry's mind.

"I like the chase," Riddle murmured conceitedly. "Chasing you is erotic, sensual. Bantering with you is all too arousing." Black lashes veiled his eyes as he looked down, as if coy. "But _claiming_ you… well…" He looked up, his crimson eyes glowing. "The very idea of emptying myself inside you, to assert my dominance over you from the inside out, gives me a certain thrill I haven't felt before."

Standing at the foot of the divan, Harry stared down at Riddle's submissive, yet challenging posture. The man was testing Harry's restraint, encouraging him to dive onto the couch and show Riddle who, exactly, was in charge. Then the fight for control would commence.

What a delicious fight it would be.

"You act as if I'd let you mount me," Harry countered, amused. It would never happen. He would never give Riddle an ounce of control over a situation like that. "Like some kind of animal."

"Mount you," the Dark Lord repeated with affirmative. "Bite you, scratch you, _fuck_ you." He smiled. "Yes, I agree, it is very animalistic, but so very _us._ " He blinked lazily. "You're afraid to truly let go and relinquish control. Perhaps it's time to let go of your fear and move past those dark days of hell. Prosper. Grow."

Green eyes narrowed into slits. "I am not a rape victim—"

"But you are." Riddle lost some of his playfulness and gazed at Harry seriously. "The most damaging result of rape is not physical. The physical scars will heal with treatment. The mental and emotional wounds are the most damaging, the most trying. You felt every moment of what your mother went through as if it were your own."

To stand in front of the powerful Dark Lord and be declared a victim had a funny way of eliminating any sort of libido Harry once possessed. While the words hadn't been spoken harshly or cruelly, Harry still felt humiliated and small.

To hide the damage, Harry smiled twistedly. "Good night, Riddle."

Riddle frowned, his eyes sharpening. "Potter. Do not leave over this." Slowly, he uncoiled from his position and sat up. "I am simply trying to point out what's preventing you from succumbing to something pleasurable."

"Something pleasurable," Harry repeated icily. "Fortunately, I can find _something pleasurable_ elsewhere. Thank you, Riddle, for your counseling therapy. Very helpful."

As Harry exited the room, he missed the calculating and satisfied expression across Riddle's face.

**. . Dreams . .**

_Victim_.

Exhaling noisily, Harry crouched down and clutched the edge of the rooftop. No one was out at this hour. It was well past midnight and the weather was cold and breezy. Situated on top his apartment complex, Harry endured the biting wind as he stared out over Diagon Alley.

It was where he usually went to clear his head, to mull things over. A hunt would have usually sufficed, yet he was exhausted. Doing things in such a weak state would lead to failures and mistakes. Harry didn't want to give Kingsley anymore ammunition when the man was already sniffing his trail.

Although, truthfully, a part of him embraced the very idea of capture.

His capture would likely lead to the Kiss. Finally being at peace seemed somewhat serene. An escape. An end to it all. His miserable existence. Or, at least that's what he always believed.

Things had a funny way of changing.

Harry placed the box next to him and settled more comfortably on top the roof. Inside the open box, the pale wand stared up at him, reminding him of Riddle. The man's mere presence resurrected something inside Harry, and it wasn't by choice. The man was so powerful, so bloody _perfect_. It clashed horribly with Harry's unstable, yet competitive mind.

He'd never felt particularly concerned over his mental health before; however, now that he needed to keep up with Riddle, it was painfully obvious he had issues that needed to be addressed. Stratton, before the man fled his apartment, indicated that Harry and Riddle were equals.

_Equals_.

It was laughable.

Harry didn't feel particularly equal with Riddle, especially lately.

In the beginning, he'd felt superior. He was the unknown predator and Riddle was an intrigued spectator. Yet, Riddle knew him better than anyone nowadays. The longer their acquaintance stretched, the more layers Riddle peeled back to uncover the damage that truly rotted underneath Harry's façade.

It made Harry feel weak and subpar.

For the first time since the death of his parents, Harry wanted to strengthen and correct his failing mind. He'd never be truly sane again. No. The damage was irreversible.

But he wanted to breathe life into the man he was now. The path he'd taken was the path he needed to embrace and walk with confidence. Most importantly, he wanted to come to terms with the past and the tragedy of his parents. He didn't want to be Roland Jarvis, bitter and broken beyond repair from the ghosts of the past.

William Stratton once said that Harry should forgive those responsible for his parents' death.

At the time, the idea seemed ludicrous.

Now… now Harry understood the man's words. Doubtless of what role Stratton played in this mess, the man was right. To truly move on and grow, he needed to accept and forgive. What happened in the past should not be his sole reason for making choices for the future.

Of course, that didn't mean he would stop looking for those responsible, nor obtaining his revenge.

It just wasn't a driving _need_.

He needed to let go of his parents. He needed to stop thinking he was doing all this for them. If Harry was honest with himself, he knew, beyond a doubt, that they wouldn't be proud of his actions. No, he was doing vigilante work because _he_ enjoyed it.

Which brought him to his current predicament.

The wand.

He contemplated the weapon, wondering if it was truly a smart idea to bond with a magical object. Clearly, it was dark. Riddle confessed as much when he explained the wand's properties. Though it sounded extremely useful, Harry knew to caution restraint when it came to objects with a mind of their own.

Moreover, it came from _Riddle._

It would make him stronger, but did he want the side effects? Something told him it would be nearly impossible to part ways with the wand once he bonded with the object. There weren't any explanations in the history books pertaining to this wand, only rumors that Slytherin dabbled with wandlore before his death.

Staring down at the pale wand, Harry reached out and snatched it from its resting place.

Expecting a flash of pain, or an invasion of sorts, he was sorely mistaken when nothing happened.

_Nothing._

He frowned and raised the wand eyelevel. Did the wand deem him unworthy as well? He couldn't even bond with a bloody wand. Harry turned it around, hating it, resenting it. Riddle would find it laughable. Though, on second thought, perhaps it took time to truly bond with it. Maybe he needed to use it for a time before anything could happen.

" _You have an interesting mind. Smart, logical, seductive, and curiously dominant. You don't give yourself enough credit."_ The voice was smooth and serpentine, very similar to Riddle. " _Unstable, yes, but that's what makes you unique. There are things that need to be…_ realigned _, however."_

A slight stiffening in Harry's shoulders indicated he heard the voice, but a quick glance around his surroundings proved it was in his head. He looked at the wand, leery. The small Parseltongue runes on the weapon emitted a soft glow; growing in intensity the longer he held it.

" _I believe the best remedy for you is to relive your horrors, emotions and all."_

"You will break me," Harry informed darkly, having an inkling to where this was going. His pulse raced at the mere thought of having to relive it all again.

He wasn't ready. He could not—

" _Break you, yes, or make you an apathetic Empath."_ The voice sounded strangely amused at the play on words. _"While it will be us causing you the relapse, you will decide what direction you take afterwards. Let's see if you are worthy for us."_

For us. Harry's brows furrowed at the unusual comment and he made a move to release the wand. As soon as his fingers opened up around the weapon, a sharp, piercing pang tore through his arm. He sucked in a breath, far too used to pain to scream. He looked down and noticed the wand stuck to his palm.

The veins in his arms slowly turned black as _it_ ventured up his elbow and all the way up to his shoulder. Heat washed his entire body, flushing it with a fever so hot, sweat instantly soaked through his shirt. Harry stood up, trying to shake the wand, but it remained embedded to his palm like a snakebite.

Stumbling, he tried to make his way into his flat, but he collapsed as pain washed over him.

"Riddle! _Bastard_!" Harry roared, seeing red, before seeing nothing.

Seeing nothing but the start of the hell he endured with his parents. The memories, so crisp and so clear, began playing in his head. From start to finish. Harry convulsed as the pain and mental torture washed through him, just as real as the day he endured it. A part of his consciousness slipped away and he was no longer on the rooftop of his apartment, but back in that room.

His captors' faces were blurs. The smell of blood and piss was strong. The hunger and thirst was nearly deadly. But most of all, the emotions were far too potent to properly _think_ for himself. He lost himself amongst their emotions and could no longer discern his identity from theirs. The malicious greed, the sadistic enjoyment, the fear, the sorrow and complete humiliation.

One, particular memory stood out amongst the rest, a memory that was once lost to him.

_The door swung open slowly, the hinges giving off a familiar groan that caused Harry to flinch horribly in his fever-induced mind. Huddled in the corner, he stared half-lidded at the open door, waiting for them to enter again. He was so tired. Exhausted. Hungry. Thirsty. They would take advantage of his needs and desires, so he'd have to keep it to himself._

_When no one entered, Harry closed his eyes and fell asleep once again._

" _Harry."_

_His eyes struggled to open at his name being called._

_It could be them. They enjoyed playing games like this. Lure him out, lead him to a sense of false security, and then take it all away. He pushed himself further against the wall, trying in vain to feel his mother on the other side. She was unconscious. His father was most likely unconscious as well._

_Green eyes blinked closed again._

" _Harry. Come now. You must leave."_

_It was unlike any voice he heard before. It wasn't_ them _, or, at least it wasn't someone he'd heard before._

_Despite the heaviness and the lethal wounds across his body, Harry struggled to rise from the corner. His bare legs trembled as he put weight on his broken ankle. He just wanted to collapse. However, a small part of him wondered what they had in store for him this time. They'd open the door again._

_Call him out. And… and…_

_Harry stumbled forward, taking multiple, small breaths in order to reenergize his lungs and work past his broken ribs. He didn't know how long it took him to reach that open door, but he eventually reached the threshold._

_Expecting something to come out at him, he was solely mistaken when emptiness and silence greeted him. Broken glass still littered the floors, remaining as if_ they _wanted to retest him like a dumb animal._

_A small, repetitive clicking sounded. Peering down the hall, Harry noticed the ajar door, clicking back and forth with the wind. As he started venturing down the corridor, he could hear the ghost of laughter from his captors. His skin broke, yet he did not even flinch as he walked down the long stretch._

_His fingers brushed the concrete walls as he hobbled along. On the way, he paused at the first open door, the room adjacent to his own. He stared numbly at the blood staining the walls and the enormous blood pooling underneath a head of auburn hair. Dead, green eyes stared at him, seeing him and he seeing her._

_Forever seeing._

_Forever unseeing._

_Harry averted his eyes and continued forward, his mind numb, his emotions utterly blank. The next room over, that once housed his father, now housed a burnt corpse. Hardly pausing to inspect his father, Harry continued onward. Blood from his wounded feet made it difficult to keep a solid balance, yet he somehow managed to reach the open door._

_Death was coming. He knew. Why would they keep him alive when they had killed his parents? As soon as he opened the door, they would come at him. One last, twisted game._

_Pushing open the door, and finally being at peace with the prospect of death, Harry flinched horribly when sun blazed into his eyes and the sound of humanity jarred his senses. His bloody feet padded awkwardly on the pavement as he shuffled outside, feeling exposed, feeling out of place._

_Laughing, cars, children, birds…_

" _Oh my_ god!"

_Harry pressed his body against the concrete exterior of his prison, his body trembling like mad. Just down the street, an American woman pointed him out, a visible sheen of horror washing her expression at his blood-soaked body. Others looked to see what caused the commotion, and shocked silence endured._

_They approached him quickly and Harry collapsed to the ground, hugging his legs to his body. The world trembled and shook._

_Across the street, a tall, lithe man stood solitarily in the chaos. He was dressed in all black, with a pair of dark sunglasses hiding his features. A tawny braid slung over his shoulder, and dangling from his bloody hand, was a gleaming, gold locket._

_Harry overlooked him, too far gone to register, to familiarize._

Stratton. Stratton.

He'd been there.

Harry shuddered, opening his eyes. His limbs shook uncontrollably, as if he were experiencing it for the first time. Raising his arms, he expected to see blood coating his skin, but all he saw was the black veins, reminding him where he was and what had happened.

" _Again."_

Harry flinched and threw his head back as the memories assaulted him once more.

" _ **NO!**_ "

**. . & Darkness . .**

_Remus Lupin will be at the Ministry tomorrow for questioning. Curious, is it not?_

Harry turned the small scrap of parchment over between his fingers, observing the blue, loopy ink and wondering at the sender. Most importantly, he wondered at the intention. Just an hour earlier, he'd received an owl from Kingsley Shacklebolt, asking for his presence tomorrow for questioning.

Either Kingsley sent him both parchments, one signed, the other disguised, just to see what Harry would do with the information. Alternatively, someone who wanted to remain nameless sent him the last warning, someone who knew of Harry's history with Lupin and wanted to forewarn him.

Either way, Shacklebolt was playing dirty. To involve Lupin…

Harry crumbled up the parchment and placed it into his pocket, smiling darkly. Kingsley wanted to get a rise out of Harry. Did he think, questioning them both at the same time would result in Harry confessing his crimes as _Custos_?

Silly man.

However, the more Harry pondered over the scenario, the more he was tempted to give the man what he wanted. It certainly would be entertaining. It would move his plans along nicely, and it would be darkly theatrical. Not to mention challenging. He loved a good challenge.

"Cormac McLaggen?"

Blinking, Harry looked up at the receptionist, giving her polite interest. Running a hand through his blond hair, he gave the woman a winning smile and sparkling blue eyes. His best impression of McLaggen. "Yes?"

She flushed. "Doctor Cliff will see you now."

Standing, he discarded his magazine back onto the end table and nodded his thanks to the receptionist. She followed him with her eyes, her emotions stinking of lustful intrigue and curiosity. Using McLaggen's identity was only supposed to fuck with the Aurors, not give them a false lead. He _hoped_ they were smart enough to know he was only toying with them now.

Then again, they'd been chasing their tails for quite some time.

Harry crossed paths with a dark-skinned witch leaving Doctor Cliff's office, her emotions stinking of bleak depression. She looked familiar, and after some careful deliberation, he realized it was Kingsley's bloody wife. He hadn't known she visited the doctor. It would not complicate things, but it was curious.

Without so much as another glance in her direction, Harry entered Doctor Cliff's office.

"Mr. McLaggen, please, sit."

Doctor Cliff was a younger doctor, probably in his late thirties. He had a shock of dark hair and pale features, rivaling that of a stereotypical vampire. His lips were thin and they always seemed to part in a sickly, condescending smile. Gossip through the grapevine declared him brilliant with patients.

"How are you doing today?" As soon as the door shut, the doctor sat opposite of Harry and smiled. "This is our second session together. How are you progressing?"

Harry leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "I first want to ask if you've heard anything from Dr. Stratton." He rolled his eyes back down, toward the doctor. "You are an esteemed therapist, but I have so much history with Dr. Stratton." He sucked in a breath and frowned. "For him to just up and leave…"

Dr. Cliff gave a half-grimace. "I'm sorry, Mr. McLaggen—"

"Cormac, please."

"Cormac," Cliff corrected with raised eyebrows. "William Stratton and I were purely professional. I didn't know much about him besides his curiously light schedule." He crossed his legs. "I don't anticipate he will be back. But that doesn't mean you should neglect your healing."

Harry stared at the man, seeing through the façade, seeing the taint and the monster. His own darkness reared up at the proximity of another similar soul. He wondered which monster was superior.

His, obviously.

"I had a major revelation last night," Harry said honestly. "I came to terms with something I thought would be impossible to accept. It has opened my eyes to a great deal of many things. I feel like a different person. Stronger. More confident." He saw the flash of disappointment in the doctor's expression before he felt it.

As much as this was a charade, he spoke the upmost truth.

Last night had been torturous. He didn't know how long he was on top that roof, or how many times he relived his experience with his parents. What he _did_ know, however, was how good he felt. Perhaps Salazar's wand had finally knocked something loose in his mind, perhaps his insanity grew with intensity, whatever it was, Harry finally felt at ease with _everything._

He'd been bitter at first, when he picked up the wand again. That was, until he started experimenting with it and realizing he'd been worthy enough to bond with it.

Fortunately, the wand never uttered another word after last night. The last thing he needed was a voice in his head that sounded irritatingly like Riddle.

The only proof of last night's ordeal was the odd mark on his forearm.

He would confront Riddle. He wanted to know how much the man knew of the bonding ceremony with Salazar's wand, how much he anticipated would happen. Surely, the Dark Lord was knowledgeable about some things. After all, he was the only one who could read the Parseltongue on the wand.

"Oh?" Cliff scribbled something on his notepad. "And what kind of person are you now?"

"Darker." Harry smiled thinly at Cliff's renewed attention. "I've accepted that I am not a good person. That my parents would be disappointed with me. However, they are dead now and have no sway over me. I have… these morals I follow, but I know that I am not a morally acceptable man by any means. I enjoy doing things I shouldn't enjoy doing."

Cliff set down his notepad and leaned forward, intrigued, sadistic.

"What kind of things, Cormac?"

"I have these fantasies about a specific person that I haven't acted on, but I'm seriously considering them." Harry leaned forward just as well, lowering his voice. "You see, there is this doctor, a psychiatrist, actually." He motioned toward Cliff, sensing the man's sudden curiosity. "He jumps around a lot, changes clinics."

And Cliff was up and out of his sofa, wand in hand.

Harry had expected as much. He threw Salazar's wand and it transferred in midair into a knife, embedding firmly into the man's chest. Using the toe of his boot, Harry kicked the man's knee in and sent him sprawling back in his chair.

"That isn't very polite, Doctor. I wasn't finished speaking. Please, sit."

He stood up from his reclined position and walked over to Cliff's fallen wand. He picked it up before the man could grope it with his reaching foot. Every exhalation the doctor took, blood sprayed across the room. His eyes were wide with shock as he touched the knife protruding from his chest.

"You're likely feeling shortness of breath," Harry stated calmly, sitting back down opposite of Cliff. He smiled pleasantly at the man. "Clearly, you can see the blood spraying with each exhalation. The blade just nicked your lung. Fortunately for you, I am rather knowledgeable of the human anatomy and rather brilliant with my aim. The stab wound won't kill you. Yet."

Cliff's fingers became slick with blood the longer he played with knife. He was likely too much in shock to get up and continue fighting. Though, the more he exerted himself, the nastier the wound would become. He'd lose breath and pass out from the lack of oxygen to his brain.

"While I do credit myself in some areas, I am modest enough to acknowledge I am nowhere _near_ your expertise when it comes to the mind." Harry twirled Cliff's wand in his fingers and cast a strong Silencing Charm around the room. "You don't like to get your hands dirty like I do, but why should you have to when you have a viper tongue and a manipulative mind?"

Cliff shook his head, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "I don't—"

"Know what I am rambling on about?" he finished. "No, most of your kind don't like to acknowledge demons aloud." Harry crossed his legs and gazed steadily at the psychiatrist. "At first, I passed off your taint as normal. But every day I came to visit Stratton, I passed this room and _always_ tasted your corrupt soul."

The Aurors would find the connection to this murder and the place Harry Potter received his treatment. He was hoping they'd see the connection, anyway.

"It wasn't until I started looking into you that I discovered you left a noticeable trail for those who actually looked for it. You can change your place of work, Doctor Cliff, but you cannot erase the body count you left behind." Harry stopped twirling the wand and suddenly leaned forward. "Manipulating your patients to commit acts that they were being treated for is rather… brilliantly deprived."

Indeed, Cliff treated an array of patients. Suicidal men and women often ended up committing suicide under his care. Homicidal patients tended to kill under his care. The more Harry dug into Cliff's world and the odd cases surrounding him, the more he realized how utterly creative the man was with his prey.

He was strictly a distance killer. A distance manipulator. Many of his past patients did not tell others they were receiving help from a psychiatrist, and often times they used false names when they visited Cliff. Either way, it was difficult to trace secondhand murders back to the doctor, especially when the man moved so often.

Harry would have liked to see how far Cliff tried to go with him in terms of mental manipulation, but after reading about a young witch committing suicide just recently, he decided he would not toy around.

"No."

Cliff gasped and wheezed, scrambling up from the couch. He was in fight or flight mode as he raced towards the door. He collapsed into the door, groping the door handle and clawing at the wood when it remained stubbornly closed. All the while, the wound to his chest increased the blood spill.

"Even now you deny your deeds." Harry stood up leisurely and watched as Cliff struggled with the door. "I bet you have a trophy of all your victims in your case files here. Don't you, Dr. Cliff?"

He approached the doctor, garnering the man's attention. Lifting his lip away from his teeth, Cliff charged headfirst into Harry, grunting like a wild animal. Easily sidestepping the attack, Harry tripped the man. Before Cliff could fall, Harry tugged him backward like a ragdoll. With his opposite hand, he twisted the knife more firmly in the chest cavity, digging it that much deeper into the lung.

Watching Cliff descended onto his back, Harry quirked an eyebrow at the pathetic man. No wonder the psychiatrist preferred manipulating from a distance. He had absolutely no physical defense about him.

"Smile for me, Doctor Cliff." He reached down, splaying his fingers across the man's face. "For being such a master manipulator, you really were quite disappointing."

"Were you expecting more of a challenge? Perhaps someone like Tom Riddle, the true _master_ of manipulation?" A voice inquired from behind Harry. "I hope you are not projecting your desire to catch and ensnare Riddle onto your other victims, Harry. They deserve their own place of honor with you."

Harry stiffened, dropping his reaching hand and forgoing his killing strike. Slowly, he turned, observing an unruffled and unmoving William Stratton by the open window. The man no longer carried a cane, yet he still had his dark glasses covering his eyes. A small, simple smile played his features as he observed Harry.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to discover Doctor Cliff here," Stratton continued airily. "Such a tainted individual, I'm sure."

Fury wanted to take hold of Harry and rule his actions, instead, he forced himself to calm and remain on guard. "You weren't in Britain," he declared quietly. "I looked everywhere for you."

"Indeed," Stratton started, "But I am untraceable when I want to be. It was and is not the time to speak about the past, Harry."

"You were there," Harry stated, a harsh whisper in the silent room. The only thing that broke the silence was Cliff's ragged breathing. "You were there after the death of my parents. You lured me outside and stood across the street like some common spectator."

"I was. I did." Stratton crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall.

"Were you a part of that?"

"If you're asking if I killed your parents, I might as well admit that I did." Overlooking Harry's flinch, Stratton pressed onward. "I was too late to save them. They were gone before I found their location. Your father and mother were both cold corpses by the time I arrived. I blame myself for not being fast enough."

Frowning, Harry shook his head. "You tried to save them."

"And you," Stratton confessed. "Though I was too late to do that as well."

A heaviness settled in the air. Stratton confessed his past actions were a direct result of his desire to save his parents. How could Harry take his word when he so willingly took off that night at his apartment? He'd possession of Lily's locket. Did that mean he held a twisted affection for her? Like Severus Snape?

On the other hand, perhaps Stratton was merely setting up a smokescreen.

"Who is Voldemort?" Harry asked instead. "I've learned he plays a part to all this."

Here, Stratton pushed off from the wall and chuckled. "Why don't you ask Tom Marvolo Riddle that, Harry?" He bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. "Ask him what name he prefers to use when he doesn't want his actions traced back to his Minister persona. I'm sure you will feel betrayal over this, but it was necessary you knew."

"You are implying that Riddle _is_ Voldemort?" Harry's fingers trembled and so did his entire person.

A loud gurgle sounded and Harry looked down for just a second to see Cliff lose consciousness and choke on his own blood. When he looked back up, Stratton was gone. He pursed his lips at the empty air, wondering who he wanted to go after the most: Stratton or Riddle.

He exhaled slowly and looked back down at the doctor. Stratton was right. He felt a sharp, hollow sense of betrayal, something he never imagined feeling again, especially from Riddle. If what Stratton said was true, Riddle had known this whole time about his mother. He'd organized the group, funded the group, and sponsored them. Slaughtered them.

" _This_ Voldemort _was most likely controlling things from so far up the food chain, he probably did not even know the identities of this exclusive group."_

That's what Riddle had said last night. The Dark Lord seemed lost in thought for the most part after arriving back from Jarvis' home in America. He claimed he was piecing things together. That just made Harry all the more furious. Riddle had no idea who he slaughtered back then. He'd just wanted… results. He wanted something. And the group hadn't delivered.

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He would not feel anything other than cold anger at this. It wasn't as if he was _in love_ with Riddle.

Laughable. Pathetic.

Dropping his hand, he stared down at Doctor Cliff with stone cold eyes. He still had work to do. Later, he could fully process the information handed to him and decide what to do.

**. . Collide .** .

Ron barely held his temper in check as he tore through the Minister's private offices. He heard his brother at his back, yelling out a warning to stop. That only encouraged him to move faster, crossing the threshold fully into Minister Riddle's office. The man in question simply raised his eyebrows while composing a letter on his desk.

"Mr. Weasley," the older wizard greeted softly. "Have you heard from your wayward friend? Mr. Potter?"

Ron abruptly closed his mouth at the inquiry, completely taken off guard. "H-Harry?" he asked, unsure if he heard correctly.

Minister Riddle sighed and motioned Percy away from the office. Once his brother left the proximity, Riddle nodded. "Yes. _Harry_." He set down his quill and motioned to the chair opposite of his desk. "I've been looking for him. He hasn't been to work this week. I believe he is needed for questioning tomorrow."

"He said he has the flu, I think, but he will be in tomorrow." Ron fell into the chair. "I wasn't aware you and Harry spoke."

Something flashed across the Minister's face. It was gone before Ron could properly identify it. "We are more than acquaintances… like you and I. Friendly." He leaned back in his chair and regarded Ron. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Weasley? What can I help you with?"

He wouldn't feel jealousy over the revelation of Harry and Riddle's relationship. He didn't know the extent of it and Harry never spoke of his interactions with Riddle. Whenever Harry did mention Riddle, it wasn't in a favorable light. No, Ron wouldn't mull over Riddle's comment, not when he didn't' know the full story.

He was accustomed to being the sole focus of Riddle's attention. Today, the Minister seemed distracted.

"You made Percy the Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic…" At Minister Riddle's continued silence and stare, Ron flushed, feeling stupid. He'd been upset when he heard the news, furious even. He hadn't interacted with Riddle for what seemed like ages, but now Percy got to work with him closely.

It just wasn't fair.

"I mean, I just… I wanted to tell you that I'd like you to teach me that _thing_ we discussed."

The Minister steepled his fingers and regarded Ron closely, almost unnervingly close. "This isn't just a decision to be made out of a jealous rage, Mr. Weasley. If you commit to the Dark Arts, you must commit completely." His words were barely audible. Considering they hadn't shut the door, it was understandable.

Ron straightened from his position, feeling foolish. "I didn't mean for it to come across like that, Minister. I truly want to learn. From you. I'd also like to know about my Black ancestors."

The decision had been a difficult one. Growing up with his family of Light supporters and Dark activists, Ron felt obligated to be the same and denounce the legacy of his ancestors. After his conversation with Riddle, however, a spark of interest and curiosity had lightened. He wanted to be great. He wanted to stand apart.

He truly thought he could achieve greatness with the Dark Arts. After all, it _was_ a large part of his family legacy.

Learning about Percy's unbelievable jump in the Ministry ranks had only fueled Ron's decision.

"I do not teach many wizards personally," Minister Riddle countered softly. "Only those that show an aptitude for the Darkness and those who have a drive like no other."

"It would be an honor, Minister Riddle," Ron anxiously replied. "Please."

Before the Minister could agree to Ron's plea, someone came into the office. "Minister Riddle," a familiar, gruff voice addressed. "We have another body."

Ron turned, staring at Auror Shacklebolt. The man seemed just as surprised to see Ron. Something suspicious settled in the man's eyes as he regarded Ron. And then the suspicion fell way to contemplative intrigue and endless possibility.

"Ronald Weasley," Shacklebolt greeted slyly. He held up a small ball in his hand. "You were interested in the _Custos_ case, weren't you?" Overlooking Ron's expression of shocked silence, he pressed forward. "Why don't you accompany the Minister and I to a crime scene, hm? It will help break you in and give you some perspective."

Before Ron could properly respond, the ball flew in his direction.

With excited, yet shaking hands, Ron caught the ball and felt something tug behind his navel. He stumbled as he landed in a hallway of sorts with a crowd of other Auror Investigators and Unspeakables. Across from him was a room with a Mirror Charm over the doorway. He couldn't see in, all he could see was his pale, astounded expression staring back at him.

He couldn't believe he was here! Wait until he told Harry!

A few, well notable Auror Investigators slipped in and out of the room, their expressions grim and opposite of Ron's. He couldn't help it. He was _here_ investigating _Custos!_ A legend. It surely beat fixing jinxed ceilings that rained on Ministry employees.

"I need to remind you, Mr. Weasley, this is strictly a training exercise." Auror Shacklebolt and Minister Riddle arrived behind him. "You are not on the taskforce _yet_ , but it will do you some good to see the true horror of _Custos._ Many like to worship him for all the crime and murder he has committed. Not everyone can see the true ugliness behind the flashy news articles."

A warm flush stained his ears and neck. "I- I don't worship _Custos,_ sir. What he's doing is wrong."

Kingsley grunted and eyed him disbelievingly. "Nonetheless, what you hear inside stays within the Auror Department."

Minister Riddle ducked inside the room and Ron eagerly followed his heels. As he went inside, the temperature turned cold and the sheer _implausibility_ reared its ugly head. Blood smeared in large quantities by the door and near the sitting area. Judging from how the room was set up, Ron assumed they were in a psychiatrist's office.

His wide eyes turned upward, staring at the body pressed up against the ceiling. Dull, dead eyes stared down at Ron, and a gaping, bloody wound could be seen on his chest. Clear, thin lines of wire wrapped around the corpse's throat and limbs, most likely the source holding him flat against the ceiling.

The most unnerving thing, besides the dead eyes, was the eerie smile across his face.

"Not one of _Custos'_ most theatrical kills," a female Auror commented. Her pale eyes fell on Ron, considering him for just a moment, before looking to Kingsley and Riddle. "Usually he ties in his victim's crimes into his murder and stages them accordingly." She placed her hands on her hips. "I don't see the connection."

"Doctor Cliff, a psychiatrist with absolutely no criminal background or allegations," an Unspeakable supplied as he moved his wand around a particularly large blood spill.

"Doctor Cliff?" Kingsley repeated in question, his face growing grim.

"Yes, sir."

Ron stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the commotion around him. Unspeakables were combing for evidence, Aurors were firing off speculations, and they all worked in harmony with each other. The body, though… that was… well… he didn't know what to think about it. He felt nauseated, undoubtedly, but _Custos_ picked this man for a reason, didn't he? Nevertheless, did that matter? Someone died… someone killed another human being.

"Did anyone put those scissors there?" Sirius Black pushed off from the far wall and motioned toward a long, clear wire with a pair of scissors mounted nearby. "It looks as if he left them there deliberately. He wants us to cut the string."

Silence spread across the office and everyone took a step back from both the string and from the body. Ron followed suit, his pulse hammering in his chest. Minister Riddle stood solitarily by the desk, the only one inclined to get close. With a long-fingered hand, he motioned to the scissors.

"I will cut it. Wands at the ready, wouldn't you say, Auror Shacklebolt?"

Without responding to the polite order, Kingsley and his Aurors raised their wands, ready. Ron slowly pulled his out as well, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what spell to have at the tip of his tongue in a situation like this.

Riddle picked up the scissors and cut the wire without hesitation.

The body dropped suddenly from the ceiling and there were shouts of horror as blood splattered across their faces. Ron closed his eyes, shaking, and used his sleeve to wipe his face. Pieces of paper rained down on them and Ron opened his eyes. He looked at the body and noticed a desk lamp now lit and pointing at the hanging corpse, casting deep and eerie shadows across the room.

And the body… it hung suspended over the desk, the clear wire wrapped around each joint and displaying the victim like a _puppet._

A puppet.

Ron gagged and swallowed his vomit, making a face as it went down sour. As his gaze swept to the floor, he finally took notice of the paper that had fallen earlier. Only, it wasn't paper, but photographs of people. He stared at the photograph at his feet, noticing it was a younger girl with an innocent smile.

"What were you saying about this kill not being theatrical enough, Auror Grey?"

Auror Grey scoffed, shaking her head as she stared at the body. "Aside from McNair, this is probably his most daring work. I'm assuming these photographs are Doctor Cliff's presumed victims." She motioned toward the wall behind the desk spotlight. "What does the writing say, Minister Riddle?"

All eyes turned to Riddle and the writing they hadn't noticed earlier. Ron squinted, noticing a crimson sprawl across the wall.

" _And so the puppeteer becomes the puppet."_

Ron was the only one angled the right way to see the expression on Riddle's face. It could have been the odd lighting, but Ron could have sworn the Minister's eyes flashed red and a serpentine smile crossed his lips. The expression, though possibly warped with the lighting, took Ron completely off guard.

"This is symbolic," Auror Grey said, stepping forward. She seemed frenzied, excited. "Not only does it mean that Cliff was the puppeteer, but I think we need to look at it as a direct correlation to _Custos'_ personal life. He _made_ us cut the strings." She looked around at her colleagues and Ron could only stare at her, impressed. " _Custos_ might have felt bound… perhaps now he no longer wants to be… I don't know… controlled?"

"What does that _mean_?" a male Auror countered with a snippiness. "That he's going to be even more out of control? More murders? Was someone pulling his strings before?"

"I don't _know_." Auror Grey placed a hand to her forehead. "I need more time to think. However, this reinforces our theory that _Custos_ is an Empath. He sensed that Doctor Cliff was not the man he said he was. We need to identify these men and women in the photographs and make a connection."

"Um… Auror Shacklebolt?"

All eyes turned to Sirius Black, sensing the dread in his tone.

The man bent down and picked up a photograph, swallowing heavily. "Isn't this your wife?"

Before the photograph could even flip around to show the others, Auror Shacklebolt sprinted out of the room.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us be reminded that Harry is smart and a *hunter*. He's been up to a great deal of things. Moreover, these 'things' will be done behind the scenes, only because it makes it more enjoyable to learn about them through someone else's eyes. With that said, his character is getting darker. He still has morals, of course, but they aren't nearly as black and white as they used to be.
> 
> Very Kingsley-centric chapter.
> 
> Enjoy! Thank you to all of you who took the time to review. It always means so much!

**24\. Chapter Twenty-Four**

" _I need to extract more blood today. It will leave you exhausted and comatose for a while. I tried to get blood bags to replenish you, but we are in need of more supplies." Red lashes veiled sad, solemn green eyes as she removed the needle from its sterile wrapper._

" _I am entirely in your care."_

_She stilled at the words. "I will find a way to save you and your family, William. I promise."_

" _Tell me about your family." He smiled. "Harry. Tell me about Harry."_

_Lily contemplated the needle, not seeing the harm in sharing with him. They spoke often about a great deal of things; mostly literature and philosophy, never her son. There was something about William today, however, that made her walls crumble and fall. "Harry is much like his father. He just turned seventeen. He's playful and light. He's… he's very sensitive and empathetic to others. He may pretend otherwise, but he just wants to help those who need it."_

" _He sounds a great deal like_ you."

_She stared down at the bleached bedsheets. "I ruin people."_

_A cold, weak hand settled over her anxious fingers. "I forgive you, Lily."_

_Lily took a deep breath, trying to control her tears. "You have no reason to forgive me for what I've done to you. To your family. I don't deserve forgiveness." She pulled her hand away and wiped away a stray tear. "I promise that I will give back what I've stolen from you."_

" _Funny thing… forgiveness…" William gave a brief smile and settled more comfortably against the pillows. He turned his forearm around, giving Lily easy access. "Forgiveness not only helps heal the guilty party when they are redeemable, but it makes my own soul lighter. Holding on to bitterness, especially in a situation where I am powerless, only eats away at my very conscience."_

" _Forgive but not forget?"_

_William's distant smile turned sour and his eyes hardened predatorily. "Oh, dear Lily, I will never forget."_

**. . Dreams . .**

"How did this happen, Kingsley?"

Running his hands down his face, Kingsley leaned into the hospital bed. "That is a very vague question, Arleen." He dropped his hands and looked across the bed at his sister-in-law. "How did Rebecca get in the bed? What actions resulted in her current state? Or more particularly, how did I find her in time?"

Arleen blinked her large, owl-like eyes before narrowing them. "There shouldn't have been a scenario where you needed to find her _on time,_ Kingsley. You are her husband. Did you not see the signs?"

He had seen the signs, and together, they had scratched only the barest of surfaces. "Our marriage hasn't been quite like it used to be," he admitted quietly. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at his wife's resting face. "I've been putting far too many hours into work and neglecting her. After losing the child, she never really recovered. And then she got into the drinking…"

Trailing off, he pressed a fist against his mouth and shook his head.

"Kingsley," Arleen tried again, softly this time. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault." She exhaled shakily. "I was her sister. I should have seen the signs as well. She lost the child four years ago. I thought she was getting _help_."

"And there lies the paradox."

Kingsley ignored her inquisitive stare, choosing to focus unseeingly on Rebecca. Just hours ago, he'd found her seconds away from death, from suicide. She'd ingested a potion intended to slowly shut down her organs and put her to sleep forever. The Healers told Kingsley, had he found her any later, she would have died.

How ironic that he owed _Custos_ a favor, a life-debt.

No, he could not think like that. Auror Shacklebolt, the Head Auror, needed to capture _Custos_ and bring him to trial. Nothing could change because of this incident. However, that didn't stop Kingsley, the man, the husband, from feeling obligated to the serial killer.

It tore apart his morals and rendered him distraught.

Before Rebecca, before Doctor Cliff, he'd already questioned many things in relation to _Custos._ Now, he found the situation far more complex than he needed it to be. He had a job to continue, an oath to uphold. There were people depending on the capture of _Custos._ A man so powerful, so dangerous, could not wander free.

Yet, he couldn't help but to relate with Auror Grey now. With Ashley Locke. With August Grey. With all those families that lost a loved one to one of _Custos'_ victims. They celebrated his very existence for extracting the vengeance the Ministry was too corrupt to accomplish themselves.

_Custos_ was a dark savior.

Even more, he was his own master manipulator. To challenge the entire wizarding society's morals, their ethics. It was frightening. The serial killer was dangerous and he was powerful now more than ever. The press was no help. They glorified _Custos_ into some _God_ who delivered true justice.

"The Healers say she won't wake up until her body is ready. It could be days or weeks." Arleen interlocked her fingers and leaned them on the bed. "I know you're working a big case. Go. As soon as she wakes up, I will contact you." She raised an eyebrow at Kingsley's stubborn defiance. "She is in good hands."

If he left his wife's bedside, he'd have to confront _Custos_. With his unsteady mind, he wondered if he was prepared for that.

If there was one thing _Custos_ was, it was intelligent. The man knew how to stalk and hunt victims with such precise detail, Kingsley knew going toe to toe with the serial killer would be a challenge in itself. He couldn't just slap heavy chains on the man and send him off to Azkaban. He needed to get inside _Custos'_ head and uncover his motives, his reasoning.

He had to do this. He had to be present when Remus Lupin and Harry Potter encountered one another.

**. . & Darkness . .**

They pitied him and asked questions they had no business asking.

Auror Investigators had sharp minds, however, and deductible reasoning. There were already reports coming in from Doctor Cliff's murder victims. One by one, they identified the men and women in the photographs and connected it to Doctor Cliff's previous patients. There were strings of homicides and suicides left in his wake.

Kingsley removed Rebecca's photograph and tossed it in the rubbish bin, earning a few disapproving looks. She was not a victim. There would be no further questions on the topic, no matter how much it may pertain to the case. Many would wonder if he was in the right state of mind to be present, with what condition she was in and what condition Kingsley found her.

He didn't need to be questioned, pitied, or judged. He needed to be _here._ In the present. In reality.

"I'm so very pleased you could make it, Minister Riddle." Kingsley nodded sharply towards the older wizard as the man stood by the display board. Kingsley glanced at all the photographs, all the victims of Cliff. "A very unfortunate turn of events, don't you think? To imagine people like Doctor Cliff live and breathe among us."

Eyebrows skyrocketed at Kingsley's comment. "It sounds as if you sympathize with _Custos'_ cause."

"Sympathize," Kingsley agreed firmly, earning a sideways glance from Riddle. "But never accept."

Minister Riddle turned to face him fully, his eyes peeling back all defenses and seeing through to his insecurities. "How is the wife, Auror Shacklebolt?" With a face of stone, Riddle continued with a smooth, sly tone. "St. Josephina is a good clinic. They will take good care of her, I'm sure."

He hadn't told anyone that Rebecca was at the hospital, least of all the location. Kingsley wondered if this was a veiled threat from Riddle, and if so, _why._ Did the man truly work with _Custos_ and felt threatened at Kingsley's new plan? His reputation would be soiled, undoubtedly, but it was undeniable that he'd walk away unpunished.

Before he could press the topic, the atmosphere in the office dimmed.

Turning, he spied Remus Lupin enter the front office with two, burly men behind him. Kingsley interacted with Lupin a handful of times in the past, yet he'd never seen the man look so much like a _werewolf._ There were scars across his face and an almost animalistic glow in his amber eyes.

"For the love of Merlin," Kingsley grumbled, looking at the man's company. "I asked for him to come alone."

"Lupin is part of a pack now, Auror Shacklebolt," Riddle responded smoothly. "He will not go outside the reservation unless they accompany him. Like animals in the wild." He paused. "What are you planning, exactly? You wanted me here for what purpose?"

_To watch you_ , Kingsley thought spitefully. "I am calling Harry Potter in for questioning. I'd like you to be here."

Riddle didn't even bat an eye. "And Remus Lupin, it appears." Suddenly, a small smile crossed the man's lips. "I very much approve of this devious scheme, Kingsley." He clasped Kingsley roughly on the shoulder. "We may make a Slytherin out of you yet. If Potter is _Custos,_ he may break after coming face to face with the man who killed his parents."

Grimacing at how those words truly made him feel, Kingsley motioned Lupin forward. "Mr. Lupin, I appreciate you coming in today."

"Remus," the man corrected, shaking his hand. "I wasn't exactly aware of what this pertained to, Auror Shacklebolt, but I am happy to be of assistance." He smiled. "These are my two pack members, I hope you don't mind their company. There have been… some questionable attacks on the reservation."

It might have been a coincidence, but Lupin's eyes landed on Riddle as he mentioned the attacks. "I hope nothing too consequential." Kingsley cleared his throat. "I have asked Minister Riddle and a few others to assist me today with the questioning." He looked at his pocket watch. "We are just waiting on Mr. Potter, and then we can start."

Lupin stiffened at the admission. "I wasn't aware Harry was going to join us. What is this about, exactly? I've given all my statements regarding the death of James and Lily." At his shoulders, the two sandy-haired werewolves shifted menacingly, causing tension amongst the rest of the observing Aurors.

Across the room, Sirius Black stood apart from everyone else. Normally easygoing and carefree, the man's expression was grimly drawn and his eyes were haunted. He looked to Lupin and then to Kingsley, disappointment evident on his face. Kingsley withheld a sigh. It appeared as if this idea did not only effect Harry Potter, but others as well.

If nothing happened today, if Potter did not show the desired reaction, Kingsley would feel like a cold-hearted bastard. But what did he expect when he followed an anonymous source that had once suggested torturing an Empath with Dementors?

"It's pertaining to the _Custos_ case," Kingsley informed quietly. He motioned to the chairs. "Why don't you sit? I promise this won't take too long."

Lupin stayed standing, a hard expression drawn on his face. "Forgive me, Auror Shacklebolt, but I am unfamiliar with this procedure. Usually the Aurors do not interview two parties _together,_ especially two parties who have a very complicated history." His lips pursed and his eyes brightened. "Does Harry know about this? As a matter of fact, do _you_ know the history I am referring to?"

In the heavy silence of the Auror Department, the clock noisily struck three.

Then the lights went off and all the maintenance charms on the windows fell away, bathing them in complete darkness.

" _Lockdown commences."_

After the cheery automated voice announced the lockdown, Aurors murmured amongst each other and cast _Lumos_ Charms on their wands. "I thought only the Minister of Magic could initiate lockdowns," Kingsley growled, lifting his own-lit wand. He cast it in Riddle's direction, noticing the man's smile.

"You are correct, though I imagine a copy of fingerprints would suffice."

"Stay on guard!" Kingsley yelled to his men, his voice easily reaching across the massive area of individual cubicles. "If it's _Custos,_ I want him taken in! _Alive_!"

"You're crazy! He wouldn't attack _here_. It's suicidal," a smartarse Auror quipped back.

Could it be this easy? Kingsley's pulse raced uncontrollably, beating so fast, he couldn't remember a time it had gone this crazy. _Custos_ was here, he knew it. It was Potter. It had to be. There were lingering doubts, however, doubts that made him wonder how he'd react when he saw _Custos'_ face in the flesh.

"Lupin," Kingsley addressed. "It may be best to put you in a secure room."

Soft, yet audible feet struck the desk behind him. Kingsley turned abruptly, spying the black-clad male on top the desk. Combat boots toed the edge of the desk and an arm shut up in the air. A pale hand clicked an instrument and all the balls of _Lumos_ flew toward the Deluminator, absorbing all the light and casting the room in pitch black.

Kingsley fumbled, casting another _Lumos,_ but failing. He then shot a stunner to where the man once stood, only for the green curse to meet empty air. Stunners and other hexes brightened the room and Kingsley swore, realizing the chaos that was his office. They were aiming blind, relying on their other senses that betrayed them.

They were hitting coworkers and other Aurors, decreasing manpower and allowing _Custos_ to thrive in the chaos.

Roaring, Kingsley pointed his wand at a desk and set it on fire. The desk exploded in bright flames and bathed the room with a vivid, orange light. From the corner of his eye, he spied the lithe and springy figure move fluidly on top the cubes, hardly deterred at the awkward route in front of him.

_Custos_ was headed for the door, chasing one werewolf and two others following in hot pursuit. While the werewolves were just as graceful, they did not possess _Custos'_ fluidness, his feline grace. It reminded Kingsley of cat and dogs chasing one another, hellbent on catching the other and damning anyone or anything that got in their way.

Kingsley aimed his wand directly in _Custos'_ path, his aim always deadly accurate. He cast a Stunner, knowing it would hit the man within the next two strides. Only, it was if _Custos_ possessed a sixth sense. The serial killer sprinted on top the cubicles, but suddenly contorted himself and flipped _over_ the oncoming Stunner.

He landed smoothly, not missing a single beat, effectively dodging Kingsley's infamous aim.

"Bloody hell!" Kingsley exclaimed.

He stared, amazed, watching the elusive entity move. He'd never seen anyone move quite like that before in his life. It was like Muggle circus acts, those very thin, leggy, and flexible acrobats that could perform impossible feats with their body. They were liquid. They were fluid…

He was dangerous.

Wasting no time, Kingsley sprinted through the Auror Department, following the misfit trio out of the office. He could hear his Aurors scramble after him and almost warned them away. He did not need their ungraceful fumbling. Their training did not encompass situations like these.

Or maybe he just wanted to catch _Custos_ by himself.

Rounding the corner of the dark and dingy corridor, Kingsley spotted the door closing to the staircase leading to the Atrium. He sprinted after them, hoping to catch them before _Custos_ harmed Lupin. The message on the note he received warned him about the repercussions of a werewolf death on Ministry grounds.

It would cause an uprising.

It would be his fault entirely. Which is why he needed to stop it.

Running up the stairs, he nearly stumbled over a bleeding werewolf, distractedly noticing it was not Lupin. He raced across the Atrium, noticing the gathering crowd of wizards and witches, stiff with surprise and inaction as they just _stood_ there. " _MOVE!"_ Kingsley barked, brandishing his wand like a lunatic.

When the crowd awkwardly parted, Kingsley stared at the two fallen bodies and the standing victor. "Put your hands in the air, _Custos_!" he yelled toward the agile male. He stutter stepped until he got down in a defensive stance and raised his wand. "Drop your weapon! You are under an arrest!"

The spectators all exclaimed loudly and backed far away, making room for Kingsley and his men.

_Custos_ raised his arms. With his shirt rolled up to his elbows, an odd, rune-like tattoo stood out against the pale skin of his forearm. Fingers opened up around a knife and it clattered to the ground. The black, messy hair should have been all the proof Kingsley needed to identity the male.

But it still wasn't enough.

"Turn around."

His heart pounded as _Custos_ slowly turned around, revealing the face of Harry James Potter.

_No._

Kingsley pressed his lips together, trying to withhold the questions, most importantly, the _why_ question. Why, Potter? Why would you do this to your parents? To your lineage? To your friends? Behind him, the whispering spread like wildfire. Sirius Black was the loudest voice of protest, unbelieving of what he saw.

"Hello, Kingsley," Potter whispered quietly, his voice like fine silk. He looked at Kingsley's outstretched wand, his hands still in the air. "As much as I enjoy the theatrics, I would suggest getting these werewolves medical attention, least you want them to bleed out and acquire silver poisoning."

Kingsley's eyes dropped to Lupin and his werewolf companion. They were still breathing. "You are under an arrest, Harry Potter, for the murder of thirteen individuals and the attempted murder of three men under the Ministry's protection." Conjuring up a set of magical chains, he sent them in Potter's direction.

Possessing a mind of their own, they eagerly shackled Potter's wrists together and his ankles. They were heavy chains, Kingsley knew, which was even better with someone of Potter's talents. He inclined his head toward the Aurors specializing in medical field. They would need to treat the werewolves, as it appeared Potter kept them alive for a reason.

Looking back at Potter's face, Kingsley stared.

It was the exact expression he imagined _Custos_ to wear; haughty, arrogant, cold, and mildly amused. Potter had an aristocratic face, a very clear and flawless face. Without the glasses, without the mask, the boy's green eyes seemed unnaturally bright and intelligent. But that's what he'd expected. Without a doubt, this was _Custos._

"Thirteen murders," Potter repeated quietly. "Don't you think you're getting ahead of yourself?"

Kingsley's lips thinned at the superciliousness. "You're coming in for questioning." Without another word, he turned his heel and swept back down toward the Department. He trusted his men to escort Potter. "Black," he barked, watching the Auror start for Potter. "You're coming with me."

**. . Collide . .**

"Lupin and company were transferred to St. Mungos, sir."

" _Custos_ is detained, sir."

"It took a while to reverse the lockdown, but everything is back up and running, sir."

"The public knows we have captured _Custos,_ sir, but was it wise to address Potter as such when we don't even have the details?"

"Don't you think we should send Black home, sir? He's too close to this, but he insists…"

Kingsley rubbed the bridge of his nose, hearing the questions and the concerns ringing in his head. They were endless. "I am surprised you're sticking around, Minister." He opened his eyes to observe Riddle standing lazily next to Potter's interrogation room.

Riddle gave him a slow, steady look. "I've already made a statement to the press that we have captured an individual who was responsible for today's attack. However, I did not confirm we have _Custos_ in custody. Despite a rather brash claim by the Head Auror, we are currently conducting interviews and will notify the public with any concrete news once we get answers."

"That's why you're the Minister and I am the Auror," Kingsley growled, his temper rising. "You possess the political finesse I lack."

The Minister didn't look impressed. If anything, his stare hardened. "Do not mistake me for your coworker, Auror Shacklebolt." He straightened from the wall and took a step closer to Kingsley. "You work _in_ my Ministry, the very same Ministry _Custos_ has challenged with his mischiefs. Would you like to ask me again why I am _sticking_ around?"

Recognizing the error of his ways, Kingsley held up his hands. "We are all on edge right now, I apologize."

Riddle smiled. "Good. Now that everything is settled and in place, why don't we begin the questioning?" Using his height to his advantage, he gazed over Kingsley's head. "Grab your top Aurors and I will meet you in the interrogation room."

Without another word, Riddle turned his heel and approached Potter's room. Stiffening at the order and the sheer arrogance, Kingsley quickly called out to his top three Aurors and followed the Minister inside the room. No one had been inside to question Potter since his detainment. Kingsley was not about to risk the chance of Riddle and Potter interacting alone.

The room was large and not an average interrogation room. Instead of the dank walls and a small table, the room was brightly lit and massive. In the middle of the room, a clear, shatterproof box housed Potter. Kingsley hesitated to call it a glass "cage", but it was specially designed for high-risk criminals.

Standing in the middle of the box, with his back turned to the doorway, was Potter. He had his head inclined, well aware of his visitors. Or more appropriately, his audience.

"You need to check him, Kingsley!" Sirius Black roared, deranged as he lunged into the room after them. "It could be a Doppelgänger! He could be using Polyjuice! Charms! Some kind of Transfiguration!" Guards at the door held him back, yet Black struggled against them. "It's not Harry!" he cried hoarsely.

"We checked for all those before we placed him in custody, Sirius," Auror Grey explained gently.

Kingsley stood to the side, watching with intrigue as Potter slowly turned toward his godfather, his face indifferent.

"Snuffles, it's me."

Somehow, those three innocent words instantly zapped all the life out of Sirius. His body sagged and the guards struggled to support his dead weight. Kingsley nodded toward the two men and they stepped aside, allowing a shocked Black to stagger inside the room. His face was gaunt with a glistening sheen of horror.

Running a hand down his face, Sirius cupped his mouth as he stopped in front of the glass separating him from his godson. "Harry?"

Potter inhaled deeply and took a step closer. "No matter how this came about, Sirius, you would always feel betrayed." He laid a hand against the glass. "There was nothing I could have done to stop that."

Auror Grey sent Kingsley a severe look across the room. Clearly, she did not approve of using Sirius to draw out answers from Potter. As much as Kingsley wanted to explore that revenue, he knew Potter would not be as forthcoming about certain things with his godfather present. Of course, that was assuming he'd be forthcoming at _all._

"Black. You're too close to this." Kingsley pushed off from the wall and stepped up to his Auror. "I need you to go home."

Sirius continued to stare at Potter and Potter continued to gaze at his godfather. Kingsley pitied Black for having to face such an unemotional mask of his godson. Finding out his surrogate son was a serial killer must have been a shock, or as Potter put it, a painful betrayal.

Black nodded bitterly, as if in shock, and slowly backed away. "I'm sorry I failed you, Prongslet."

Green eyes watched his retreat. The boy didn't say anything in response. Kingsley was sure, had it been a different setting, with a different audience, they would have traded words that were more meaningful. However, _Custos_ had a reputation to uphold. Kingsley certainly couldn't picture Potter a simpering and remorseful mess.

No. Potter may have been many years his junior, and a boy Kingsley had known through his parents, but that was no longer the man standing in front of him. Through his deeds, through his kills, through his cleverness, Harry Potter turned into something dangerous and untouchable.

Kingsley would deny it, but Potter was a different entity all together. Standing apart from all other wizards and witches.

"He failed to save you, but you were successful in saving others," Auror Grey started after Black left the room and silence settled. "How does that make you feel?"

Potter slowly walked the perimeter of his glass prison, his movements that of a controlled and graceful predator. "I don't need saving." He inclined his head ever so slightly, his eyes glimmering with sly humor. "People like your son need saving." Green eyes pierced straight through Kingsley. "And people like your wife."

Kingsley sucked in a breath and Grey stiffened. Perhaps they were too close to this as well. Across the room, he noticed Riddle. The Minister gazed steadily back at Kingsley, as if contemplating the same issue. Kingsley might have been close, as was Grey and Black, but Riddle sniffed after Potter's trail from the very beginning.

The man had his hand in something, Kingsley was sure. They were all too close to this.

"I suppose you think Auror Grey and Shacklebolt are indebted to you," Auror Johnson quipped cruelly. He stepped up to the glass and smiled twistedly at Potter. "I was never one to consider you as a savior like all the others. You're just an insane killer like the rest of the monsters you hunt."

Potter paused and looked indifferently toward the man. "And you are?"

Johnson flushed crimson at the condescending tone. "One of the men who put you in here."

"In here," Potter whispered, "Is exactly where I want to be. Take credit for that all you'd like, Auror, but you just played nicely into my hands." He then turned back to Grey and Kingsley, dismissing Johnson and Frances was if they were merely an inconvenience. "I do hope Remus Lupin received prompt medical attention."

"Someone sent me an anonymous suggestion that I reintroduce you to Remus Lupin, to draw you out." Kingsley ignored Grey's startled attention. "Just as they suggested I draw you —an Empath— out through the Dementors."

Potter seemed mildly interested in this. "Perhaps the same someone who warned me Lupin was going to be here today."

Kingsley frowned. "It has been suggested that this anonymous spectator wants you caught."

"Or maybe he knew exactly what cards to play in order for me to drop the act and become a threat. To watch the entertainment and theatrics unfold for his own amusement." Here, Potter looped around the perimeter and looked towards an observing Riddle. "A master manipulator will know how to effectively place the blame on someone else. Isn't that right, Minister?"

Was Potter suggesting that Minister Riddle had sent the letters? Kingsley felt unnerved at the very thought. He should have insisted he watch the Surveillance Charms that showed the perpetrator releasing the Dementors. Riddle suggested someone had controlled Kingsley into doing it.

At the time, he believed the Minister, only because he'd received that mysterious letter and felt partially at blame.

If Tom Riddle was the culprit, he _wanted_ Potter to reveal himself. He'd worked behind the scenes to nudge _Custos_ into the public. But at what means? What ends? What could possible motivate the Minister to encourage Potter to drop the act and fully embrace this side of himself? Riddle would possess a sick, twisted mind if that were the case.

"Politics is just a fancy word for manipulation, Mr. Potter." Riddle smiled without teeth. "Of course I am accustomed to the art. Just as you are, I see."

"He's right," Auror Grey interjected. "You knew Kingsley was drawing you out by bringing Lupin here. You're smart enough to avoid that. You also could have gotten away if you hadn't initiated a Ministry lockdown, but you locked yourself in here with an army of enemies. You had no wand on you, only a knife that matches the wounds on Dr. Cliff."

Potter smiled a mysterious smile.

"You _wanted_ to be captured." Kingsley scowled. "Why now?"

"And we finally get to the important questions."

Kingsley looked to Riddle, noticing that the man was oddly silent. Even odder, Potter was avoiding the man quite efficiently. "You seem to be avoiding Minister Riddle, Potter." He crossed his arms over his chest. It made sense now that they worked together. "Considering you started this vigilante work to challenge his Ministry's transparency, I would have thought you'd be taunting _him_."

"I'm not interested in playing with him." Potter stood poised and ready at the corner of the cage. He had eyes only for Kingsley. "I only want to play a game with you, Kingsley."

"We're not playing your sick games," Frances argued. He looked at Kingsley's considering face. "He's tampering with your emotions, sir. He's an Empath, remember?"

"My emotions are my own," Kingsley barked, insulted that one of his men would question his sanity. He turned back to Potter, watching the male rise nonchalantly on his toes before rocking back on his heels. "What kind of game, Potter? Though I find it doubtful you risked your freedom just to _play_ a game."

"I won't be in here long, Auror Shacklebolt," he replied faintly. "Which is why we should start this as soon as possible."

Kingsley couldn't help it. He laughed. "You're not going anywhere anytime soon."

Leaning a shoulder against the glass, Potter propped himself up lazily. "You underestimate my reach."

The hairs on his arms stood and goose bumps prickled his entire body at the vague, yet powerful statement. Somehow, he did not doubt how much sway Potter had over the Wizarding world. He closed his eyes. "What does this game entail?" He heard Auror Grey make a sound of disagreement in her throat, but pressed onward. "What is the end result?"

"All good questions." Potter preened. "This game is about asking the right questions and finding the clues before they expire. The motive of this game is to show you how corrupt our Ministry really is. We haven't even scratched the surface." He pushed off from the side of the glass and slowly sauntered towards Kingsley. "It will be best to go out in groups, Auror Shacklebolt. Power is in numbers."

He stared. It was the only thing he could do.

"How can we trust that this is your aim? That the things you show are real?" Auror Grey demanded.

"Because, somewhere in your mind, you hold a very unhinged and twisted belief in what I do." Potter raised his hand and held up a finger. "I have yet to show you a false criminal or fabricate the deeds they have committed." He whirled back around and smiled blindingly at Kingsley. "What is white and red all over?"

Johnson snorted. "We've heard that one before. A newspaper."

"Aw, yes." Potter braced both hands on the glass and leaned forward, looking down. "Aside from a newspaper, it could also be a Caucasian female covered in blood. Hers, others, maybe both. Perhaps she is associated with the press as well. Muggle or wizarding news, it's up to you to find out."

"There are several _hundreds_ of white females who write for newspapers, Potter." Frances shook his head. "That's not much to go on. Whatever clue you're making us look after, we could be searching for days without knowing what we're searching for!"

"Not all of them work for the Ministry," Grey whispered, earning a tight smile from Potter. She stared levelly at the serial killer. "Your aim is to show us the corruption in the Ministry and even cautioned it was best to do this in numbers. If this female we are looking for is writing for a newspaper, she's also part of the Ministry. And covered in blood. I reckon you killed her?"

With his head still bowed, Potter tsked. "I said you will need to follow the clues before they expire." He looked up suddenly, pinning her with a hard look. "I suggest you start moving before _she_ expires."

"Go," Kingsley ordered. "Start looking for female Ministry workers associated with the press." When the others remained rooted in their spot, Kingsley whirled around. " _Now!"_ He nodded to the Minister. "You too, Minister. I need all the help on this as I can get."

That earned him a cold, hard stare. Riddle moved, however, with one last, lingering gaze at Potter.

When everyone was gone and silence settled across the room, Kingsley turned toward Potter. The serial killer gazed steadily back at him, as if knowing and sensing the true turmoil inside Kingsley. Gathering up his courage and pride, Kingsley approached the glass cage and looked at Potter.

"You can make those in pain feel at peace in their final moments. You made August Grey, a very abused little boy, feel confidence like none other." He paused, staring into the face that had turned from arrogant to solemnly serious. "Can you heal her?" Kingsley whispered hoarsely.

Potter did not mock, nor did he laugh. Clever green eyes contemplated him for a long moment. "I like to play God, Kingsley, but that doesn't mean I am God." He was utmost serious. "I can make her feel something alien, something her mind can't fully comprehend or fight off. She'd feel at ease for a while, content even, but it would be a lie. In order to heal and become truly happy, she must overcome it herself."

Kingsley pressed his lips together and gave a sob. He held in the tears, however, and didn't crumble. One moment of weakness, but one moment Potter had witnessed. It hadn't mattered. The man was an Empath. Even if Kingsley hadn't showed an outward reaction, Potter would sense the utmost _rot_ he felt at this very moment.

"You have very complex emotions right now," Potter pointed out. "You despise me, yet you fear and admire me. You feel guilty and responsible for your wife's state of mind, yet you hate her selfishness and weakness."

"That's not true," he argued passionately.

"I am well aware of the human mind. More than aware." Potter grinned without humor. "You don't even want to admit it to yourself, but you do feel betrayed by her." He inhaled. "Just know that it wasn't entirely her fault or yours. Cliff was the real monster behind it all. It's so very satisfying to eliminate scum like him."

Kingsley shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are not above the law, Harry." He dropped his hand and looked forlornly at the young man. "Tell me, what makes you any different from the men and women you kill?"

Potter's thin shoulders shifted under his fitted shirt as he contemplated the question. "I would have once considered that question naïve and ridiculous, but I've come to terms with who I am." Something dark shifted in his expression. "Nothing makes me different from those I hunt. The only thing that separates me from them is the type of victims I chose."

"You _do_ have morals," Kingsley countered, desperate to make Potter see the flaws in his ways. "That tells me that you aren't an entirely cold-blooded killer. You saved August Grey, Ashley Locke, my _wife._ You've saved many who needed saving." He heaved a frustrated sigh at Potter's impassive expression. "You can plead insanity. You'd be subjected to the—"

"Insane asylum?" Something wary twisted Potter's lips. "As much as the idea of stale food and straitjackets intrigue me, I'd rather take my chances in the wild. You see, another thing that makes me different from those I hunt, is that I am stronger and far more influential. You will never truly catch me."

"You underestimate me."

A cold and humorous expression crossed Potter's face. "Oh, Kingsley," he breathed with a chuckle. "I do not underestimate _you_. It is your Ministry that cannot hold me, simply because it will crumble from the inside out." Green eyes brightened. "All under the skillful hands of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Stiffening, Kingsley felt a cold chill wash down his spine. "What are you saying?"

Potter examined him silently for a long moment, looking as if he were going to reply truthfully. He then turned his shoulder on Kingsley, dismissing their conversation. "It would be wise to find that female reporter, Shacklebolt. And do keep your Aurors close."

That response didn't sit right with him at all. "You better hope this game doesn't waste time. We could be using your knowledge in order to protect ourselves from the Ministry's corruptions, Potter. I am on your side. I don't agree with your ways of doing things, but I want my Ministry as clean as possible."

"We have already lost," Potter responded coldly. "I am simply showing you how far that corruption stretches."

**. . Dreams . .**

Kingsley left and Harry had a moment to breathe. He stood in the middle of his glass prison and bowed his head. When a sufficient amount of time passed in the peaceful silence, a smile stretched lazily across his lips. It had gone well. Just as well as he envisioned, if not better.

Merlin, they were so easy to play. All of them. A pity they didn't stand a chance.

He'd learned a great deal of things these past few days, locked in his hunter persona. He'd gotten answers from many sources. Some sources were forthcoming, others not so much. He'd learned things about Riddle, about Voldemort. Not anything, _he_ wanted to know personally, but about the Ministry and his various minions.

Kingsley had a right to know, as did his Aurors.

Briefly, he thought of Remus Lupin and the Aurors' plans to lure _Custos_ into the open. Harry hadn't come to the Ministry to kill the man, no matter how much he'd desired it. He'd come specifically to be captured. However, that didn't stop the animalistic urge to hunt, to harm. He wanted to do more to Lupin, but he hadn't had the time.

Lupin stunk of guilt and strong remorse. A guilty man tasted like guilt. Of remorse. No matter what tale Lupin spun, it didn't change the fact that he had a hand in Lily and James' death. Like Riddle—

No.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. It was ironic that he'd do anything for Lupin just months earlier; now, however, he would bypass the werewolf just because he obsessed over getting even with Riddle. The man had betrayed him. Had pointedly lied about knowing the identity of Voldemort. Harry felt things he shouldn't _feel_ at the revelation, only because it was _Riddle_.

He shouldn't have expected anything less.

The door opened and quiet, yet graceful footsteps approached him from behind. Harry stared at the far wall, narrowing his eyes pleasantly. The man was predictable, so very predictable. "Careful," he whispered, "Your stripes might begin to show if they catch you in here alone."

"It is unlike you to exclude me in a game. I must confess myself left out."

Harry closed his eyes against the smooth, seductive tone of Riddle. The man had a way of pronouncing his words. It made others hold on to each syllable, yearning to hear more. "Oh, but this is _all_ about you, Riddle." He opened his eyes and turned to look at the man from over his shoulder. "I'd like to call it ' _The Unveiling of Lord Voldemort'_. What do you think?"

Minister Riddle stopped abruptly at the admission, yet his expression was coolly controlled. "Who told you?"

The question abruptly killed all of Harry's bitter amusement. Hot anger took its place. " _You_ should have!" he yelled, baring his teeth and curling his hands into fists. "You think I wouldn't have found out? I want the world to know who you are. They, just like I, need to know their Minister on a more intimate level."

Riddle stared languidly before a wickedly pleased expression lit his face. "You have just tickled the sleeping dragon, child. It's rather fitting I cut your strings and you remove my mask." He was not at all upset, not at all threatened, but pleased. "I can just kill him and the others. Ruin your fun."

Fun.

He acted as if this were all just fun and games.

Harry turned his back on Riddle, hating himself for suddenly feeling the same excitement, the same wicked adrenaline. There was something oddly dark about Riddle today. As soon as Harry mentioned unveiling his persona to the Wizarding world, something had shifted inside the Minister.

Replaying Riddle's words, Harry chuckled lowly, truly tickled. "Then you have showed your hand by admitting Kingsley and _I_ are a threat to you. Kill him. Kill me. But that just means I won this game."

When no response came from Riddle, Harry turned around, surprised to see the man standing close to the glass. He observed Harry with bright crimson eyes, and if drawn by an unforeseen force, Harry approached the edge of his prison. He stopped toe to toe with the man, only a thin layer of glass separating them.

"But haven't I told you already?" Riddle mused quietly. "I am not through with you yet. You and I are just getting started." He paused, his aura darkening into seductive waves. "You have no idea what darkness you will unleash on this world if you unveil me, Harry."

"Perhaps I have an inkling, _Tom_ , which is why I am eager to see you as something other than _inactive._ "

"Be careful what you wish for." Riddle all but preened as he pressed his hand against the glass. His eyes tore through Harry with such strong intensity. "The things I want to do to you right now..."

Frustrated at Riddle for shrugging this challenge off as erotic, and frustrated at _himself_ for feeling the same, Harry slammed his fist against the glass, directly in Riddle's face. The man didn't flinch. His eyes only brightened and his own hand curled into claws against the glass.

"You did a very large injustice to me. To my family."

"Yes," Riddle admitted excitedly. "I have." He peered down at Harry. "But your mother wasn't entirely innocent herself, was she? I funded the group, wanted the results, but I put someone else in charge. Someone who ran things, someone who was _intimate_ with the identities of the group. Can you guess who, Harry?"

"It still doesn't excuse your blatant lie."

"Can you guess who?" Riddle repeated breathlessly, a hint of a serpentine hiss.

Locking his jaw stubbornly, Harry searched Riddle's face. He hated the man. Wanted to destroy the man's reputation. And he would. Yet for a brief moment, he played Riddle's game. "Regbo."

Across the room, the door opened suddenly and an Auror peeked inside with raised eyebrows. "Sir?" the man called to Riddle's turned back. "I—Auror Shacklebolt asked that no one be let inside without his presence. Especially you."

Brown slowly bled away the crimson in Riddle's eyes. He looked obsessively at Harry's face before looking at the runes etched onto his forearm. Devious and sly, Riddle smiled mysteriously. "I look forward to seeing how all this unfolds. You are quite the performer, a worthy opponent."

"You would only let things continue if it suits your purposes."

"Too true," Riddle replied softly. "Perhaps, like you, I find my guise far too tiresome. Maybe it's time for the world to see the true me." He stepped backward, his eyes falling once again to the runes across Harry's arm. "I couldn't have picked a better wizard to unveil me."

Without another word, Riddle turned and left.

Harry stared after him for a long while, wondering why their conversation had a drastically different result than what he anticipated. He'd thought Riddle would be upset at Harry's plans of exposure; only, the man had seemed pleased, eager even. Maybe Riddle spoke the truth. Maybe this point of time was the precise point where he felt comfortable embracing _Voldemort._

He released a heavy breath, his eyes narrowing.

He'd continue with his plan, no matter what Riddle boasted. The Dark Lord didn't know what Harry had in store. Riddle may have numerous followers, but he wasn't all-powerful. Harry could still weaken him and that's what he intended to do through Kingsley.

Leaning against the side of his prison, Harry deliberated when his sole entertainment began to revolve around Riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Livionweiss has created a work of art for this story! It's wonderful to look at and I am extremely impressed with it. It means so much to me! If you'd like to view it, just remove the spaces: bit . ly / 25ELiPS


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the reviews from last chapter. Thank you.
> 
> Warnings: Typos/grammar errors. A transitional chapter, but also a dark chapter. Harry is a very, very bad person in this as he discovers the true extent of his abilities. You may be upset with it, but I assure you, Riddle is most definitely pleased.

 

**25\. Chapter Twenty-Five**

"You seem to have good news."

Entering the Minister's office, she was quick to spy the euphoria expression on her son's face. Half-lidded eyes, a long, contemplative finger against his lips, and the way his lithe body sprawled confidently in his chair were all signs of pleasure and satisfaction. Such signs usually did not show through unless something truly satisfied her son.

Tom inclined his head in her direction, his eyes still distant and dilated. "My assumptions have been confirmed."

Merope lifted her eyebrows. "Whenever has your assumptions failed you, my son?"

A slow smile. "I was unsure about this specific assumption."

She took in his curled left fist and the way his foot bobbed impatiently. They were such small signs, but to her, she could tell Tom was very eager. Whenever he wanted something as a child, his body would tense, though his face remained stubbornly unreadable. The unrestrained impatience and the nearly intoxicated expression easily gave Merope her answers.

For a lack of better word, her son was aroused.

"Potter has pleased you?"

" _Yess,_ " Tom replied in Parseltongue, his lashes lowering. _"He is mine. It has… been determined. Salazar's wand chose him."_

Merope stiffened in her portrait. "It is unwise to consider him worthy enough to be your equal just because he would fit _Salazar's_ requirements as a Hand. That's all Potter will ever be. A bodyguard. A fighter. A protector. _Your_ protector."

Deep, brown eyes turned in her direction. "We both know how Salazar viewed his right hand man." A slow, serpentine smile crossed her son's face. "He is worthy enough for _me_ , mother, why must you be so insecure about Harry? He has met and exceeded my expectations. Now, with the wand... it's right there on his skin. Etched into his very person. He belongs to me."

"He has also moved in the direction of his strings. The very same strings you control."

"He is no longer a puppet."

"Yet you forced him to reveal himself as the serial killer."

"I firmly believe he has chosen that path himself despite my work behind the scenes." Tom continued to gaze at her. "He found out about my work as Voldemort. He found out about Regbo's group and my involvement. His mother was an active member of that group. Therefore, he has decided to unveil me before the Wizarding world."

"And that clearly excites you." Merope exhaled and closed her eyes. "He only challenges you so much because you _let_ him challenge you, Tom. It would be easy to eliminate him if you so choose. As you've always stated, it is smart to remove the threat before it gains momentum."

Tom waved a careless hand. "He wants to get back at me for what I did to him and his family. Yet, I know there is a part of him that enjoys this dance. He is just as intoxicated as I."

"Then you both deserve each other."

Her voice could have been bitter. It should have been bitter, but Merope found herself surprisingly at peace. Her son clearly found someone who could keep up with him and satisfy him at the same time. Tom never looked at someone twice. Though Merope still questioned his obsessiveness involving the young, _very young_ Potter, she knew when to relent.

From Tom's recollections of Potter and from her own observations, the two were rather similar to one another. Potter had far more morality to him, far more emotion, but in the end, he was a good match for her son. They balanced one another quite well and if Tom thought Potter was an equal, then that's all that mattered.

"How far will you let him go with his plans of revealing you?" Merope inquired curiously. "It is not yet time for you, is it?"

"Over fifty years were invested in building my regime." Tom placed a finger on top a paperweight. "It has solid foundations as it will ever have. Many generations have pledged their loyalty. So much gold. So much political reach. I am just as eager as Harry to let the world see my true self."

A wicked gleam entered Tom's eyes as he contemplated.

"Have you told Potter the depth of what happened with the group his mother was involved in?" She narrowed her eyes. "Just how involved was he and _she_ with the end result? Is he… like you?"

"I have not, a substantial amount, and he is." Tom stood up and straightened his robes. "The more I learn, the more I realize how it all fits. The questions I had about Harry and his past have come together. I believe it's why Regbo is after him. In due time, I will tell Harry everything. In the meantime, it is vital he stays out of Regbo's hands."

"Perhaps it's prudent to tell him immediately."

"I must first redeem myself in his eyes."

The words were foreign to her, so much so, it froze her portrait. The magic involved making her into this portrait could not summon up an immediate, proper response. She had no recollection of those sort of words from her son's mouth, nor had she ever fathomed she'd hear them.

"How…" she started, struggling with what Merope Gaunt would say. "Do you plan on accomplishing that?"

He smiled, as if he knew her default portrait settings had difficulties forming a reply. "Why, mother, I must play his game with equal enthusiasm." Tom appeared confident. "There are also some people I know he'd like to meet and get to know. I would consider them as a…"

"Gift?"

"Reward."

Merope pursed her lips and stared at her son. "And what does your precious Hand mean to Regbo?"

Tom tapped the desk with a long finger. "He is the key to Grindelwald's second rise to power."

Something devious and contemplative crossed Tom's expression. Merope knew that expression. "You are planning something."

"You taught me, mother, that with every action comes a reaction. With every attack comes a counterattack. I am simply looking ahead and predicting Regbo's next move." Tom contemplated his desk. "He is gathering strength and allies. Though he started years after I, he has the ability to coerce even the unwilling to obediently follow his will. He is a force to be reckoned with, yet he has weaknesses I will exploit."

"If he holds such power, why hasn't he acted yet?"

Tom smiled cruelly. "He is waiting for my first move."

Merope stared at him unhappily. "Like Potter, you are _allowing_ Regbo to challenge you. You could easily enter his domain and destroy him before the threat festers."

"Mother," Tom crooned softly. "I have underestimated Regbo once before. It is not something I will do again."

A knock sounded and a head of startling red hair popped inside the office. "Minister Riddle, sir," Percy Weasley addressed with a pinched voice and an even more pinched expression. "There is a situation in the Atrium. A very large and chaotic situation."

**. . Dreams. .**

She tried not to let the hype affect her, but she still found herself standing numbly in the Atrium.

It was utter chaos. Loud, violent, and crazy. The public got wind of the Ministry's capture of _Custos_. Though Minister Riddle attempted to cover Auror Shacklebolt's admission that they captured Harry Potter, also known as the serial killer _Custos,_ the public still believed Harry to be the one to blame.

It didn't surprise Hermione that people were at the Ministry, calling for Harry's head and his immediate execution without a trial. What did surprise her, however, was the complete and utter _split_ down the middle. One side of the public was arguing for his immediate execution, the other side was fiercely defending him and angling for a release.

They were so fierce. All of them.

"Can you believe it? Do you really think it's true?"

Hermione turned around, spying Ron coming to a stop behind her. He was dressed in his Auror robes, looking far more adult than he'd ever looked. His expression was grim as he surveyed the protesting crowd. Aurors blocked off room for the Ministry workers to go about their business and the protestors to stay within regulated boundaries.

A good majority of the Ministry workers were down in the Atrium anyway. All of them stared at the crowd, just trying to catch a glimpse of the pandemonium. Hermione hated to be included in the group of gawkers.

She happened to glance over Ron's head and up above, where the balcony overlooked the Atrium. She spied Minister Riddle bracing his arms against the railing and peering down at the crowds. Mostly cast in shadow, Hermione could only see the pale sharpness of his face. He omitted a type of mysterious aura as he contemplated the crowd.

Suddenly, as if sensing her observation, his attention dropped down to her.

"'Mione?"

Hermione turned away from Riddle and looked toward Ron. "I can't believe it," she responded tightly, looking away from him, feeling terrible.

How could she tell Ron she'd known for quite a while now? That their best friend was a serial killer who enjoyed killing other criminals? She understood Harry's side, she truly did. She would never condone his actions, but a very large part of her could never hate him for what he did. It was why she kept silent.

"Hermione," Ron tried again, calling her name firmly. "You don't look surprised that Harry is _Custos,_ but you also don't appear in disbelief either." He crossed his arms over his chest, his face going pale with anger. "You knew about this, didn't you? You _knew_ Harry was a killer!"

She shook her head. "I don't know how you'd like me to react in this situation, _Ronald_. Of course I didn't know."

"Then it should be easy to look me in the eye and say that."

Despite the chaos and shouts in the Atrium, a heavy silence hovered between her and Ron. She looked him in the eye, noticing his frustrated, yet hopeful expression. He was quick to make an accusation, but Hermione knew Ron would accept her lie as the truth and move on as if he'd never suspected her in the first place.

He was loyal. Moreover, he was very dedicated to those he loved.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Hermione whispered, feeling something inside her shatter at the confession. "I knew."

Wide eyes stared at her blankly before disgust and pure anger twisted his expression. "I can't believe you'd keep something like this from me! He's my friend too!" He waved his hands in the air, his entire persona shifting to that of a wronged child. "I don't know if I can ever look at you again."

Her own expression crumbled, yet she held in her tears. Around them, their coworkers glanced in their direction, all too curious for their own good. Of course they'd find interest in their argument. After all, she and Ron were Harry's friends and Harry was now a renowned serial killer across Europe.

Harry may have willingly unmasked himself, but by doing so, he shed a light on all those around him.

Suddenly, something loud cracked across the Atrium, sounding especially like a snapped wire or a crack of thunder. Voices quieted, even the protesters silenced in their outrageous cries. On alert, Hermione turned from Ron and assessed her surroundings. Searching, her eyes finally landed on a figure flying through the air from above.

She took out her wand, as did most the witches and wizards in the area. Only, the figure wasn't _flying_ , it was _dropping._

The limp figure, suspended only by a few cords of wire, came down from the rafters. She stared, noticing the figure was nearly nude, but dressed in ripped and ratty Auror robes. Clearly male, the man's body jerked unnaturally as the cords tightened and lost slack. As they pulled taunt, the man's limbs lifted awkwardly in a very cruel imitation of a puppet.

A brilliant red smile painted the man's face. Hermione stared, horrified when realization struck her.

The man was dead.

And the man was none other than Sirius Black.

Hermione lowered her wand and staggered backward, screaming. Terror and raw horror turned her cold. The others in the Atrium soon drowned out her screams with their own as they pointed at the sight before them. Soon, her horror turned way to deep sorrow and torment.

She dropped to the floor, sobbing. Vaguely, she was aware of the heavy arms around her, hugging her on the ground. Perhaps he was offering comfort, or maybe he needed a companion as desperately as she did. Hermione buried her face into Ron's shoulder, trying to block out the others.

A part of her wondered if she or Ron would be next.

**. . & Darkness . .**

Harry paced and counted, trying to estimate how long Kingsley and his band of merry men were absent.

Well, that was only half the reason he paced. Besides timing Kingsley, Harry was mildly intrigued to see how long before the guard at the door snapped in irritation. With each slow turn he made around his prison, he tapped his fingers against the glass cage, preening as he felt spike after spike of annoyance coming from the guard.

The man despised him. Hated him, even. The emotions were overwhelmingly sweet.

Harry wasn't surprised, nor was he upset over someone hating him for his acts of vengeance. It was to be expected. What wasn't expected, however, was the man's abrupt turn in emotions as he checked his pocket watch. Dark, wicked amusement muffled the animosity. A faint, yet potent 'taint' filled the air as well.

Oddly enough, as soon as the guard checked his pocket watch, a distant wave of horror and fear spiked across the Ministry. Harry frowned as he felt the strong emotions coming from a large group of people. Was the Ministry under attack?

He continued to pace, not letting his hesitations show.

"You think you are so high and mighty, don't you?" The Auror snapped his pocket watch closed and leaned against the wall. "Look at you. Sauntering around a cage you all but created yourself. You lead my coworkers around by a noose, enjoying their scrambling as they play your game."

Harry slowed his pace to a leisure roll. "That is the idea," he murmured silkily.

If anything, that only enraged the man further. "Your arrogance is enormously unjustified." He threw a hand through his colorless grey hair, his features twisted into disgust. "What is there to boast about? Killing unarmed men and women because you deem yourself a God? And you do it in such a Muggle and tasteless way."

"Tasteless?" Harry inquired with mock melancholy. "I thought my methods were rather creative."

"You're an animal."

"I prefer the term _predator_."

Crimson stained the Auror's face. "You little _shite!_ "

"Now Carson, don't let him rile you up." Another man came through the door, his emotions a whirlwind of adrenaline, excitement, and greasy malice. He seemed to be the Alpha male out of the pair as he placed a commanding and restraining hand on Carson's shoulder. "We're the ones in control, no matter how much Potter likes to act otherwise."

Harry stopped and turned to face the pair. He assessed them through critical eyes, distinctively noticing the crimson blood staining the newcomer's hands. Pure cruelty gleamed in the man's cold, blue eyes as he surveyed Harry back. Smugness seeped through the man's wickedness and Harry grew cautious, though he refused to let it show.

"You never thought about the consequences of your actions, did you?" The blond newcomer, also dressed in Auror robes, inquired. "Being the animal you are, you probably only considered what would happen to _you_ if you came out as _Custos,_ not those around you."

"What did you do?" Harry hissed.

"Not _what,_ but _who_ ," Carson interrupted with a laugh. "Doctor Cliff was a good man. A very good man. The way you mangled him into a puppet! It was…" the man trailed off and swallowed.

"He was a good wizard and a very intelligent psychiatrist," the other Auror finished firmly. "He helped many of us see our true potential. You took away a man who actually contributed to society."

Harry stared and then he laughed. "What fools you are. So easily manipulated, aren't you lot?" He pressed his fingers against the glass and admired them from afar. "I would have respected your reasons if it was just about my methods, but because you're actually doing this _for_ Doctor Cliff makes your efforts just plain pitiful."

"Sirius Black didn't think our efforts were pitiful before we made him into his own puppet."

Harry continued to smile, though his whole body froze at the admission. His mind stopped for a moment and a deep sense of panic swept through him. Sirius couldn't be dead. They were boasting, only trying to take him off guard and scare him. They wanted an advantage; they wanted to get back at him.

He looked into their eyes, to their emotions, sensing nothing but the truth, nothing but corrupt smugness.

Dropping his hand from the glass, Harry straightened and seethed. He pushed away his sorrow, his fear, and focused on the present. They would pay. They would pay dearly. They would not see another day.

"Look at that, Franklin. It seems as if Potter actually does possess a sliver of humanity." Carson smiled smugly. "After we're done with you, Potter, be rest assured, Granger and that Weasley boy will be next. We will wipe away all your taint from the Wizarding world. It will be as if you never existed."

Franklin twirled his wand between his fingers. "Black served his purpose by creating a diversion. We have all the time we need to wipe you from existence." He pointed his wand at Harry's cage and ignited a fire underneath the raised platform. "Let us watch you burn in hell."

The heat was instantaneous. Harry's boots warmed and the soles of his feet started to sweat immediately. His sweat poured down his back and his pores wept from the overabundance of heat. He closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. The runes etched into his forearm suddenly seared with pain, as if sensing the danger and voicing protest.

He wouldn't die like this, not for their entertainment and certainly not when his loved ones were still in danger. His tormentors called him an animal. It was poetic justice to kill Harry in the confinements of a cage and burn him as if they were sending him directly to hell. It would be a sweet victory on their parts if they succeeded.

He couldn't have that.

He was stronger than this.

Bright green eyes opened and drilled into the weakest link. Auror Carson smiled gleefully when Harry's attention landed on him. Fools. They were so smug, so foolishly proud of themselves that they'd forgotten one thing about Harry.

He focused on Carson's wicked glee and slowly manipulated the emotion. It was easy when they were already feeling such strong emotions. It allowed him to take captive of that intensity and warp it in his favor. Gradually, the glee turned into uncertainty and then extreme and unrestrained pity. Regret. Horror of what he'd done.

Carson's smile fell off his face abruptly and he pointed his wand at Harry's cage. " _Aguamenti!_ "

"What the hell?" Franklin barked, slamming his body into his partner's side.

Carson fell and stumbled onto the ground, his spell to extinguish the fire bouncing off the wall, rendering it useless. "You bloody freak!" Franklin roared toward Harry. His anger was fierce and so easily manipulative. "Put him back! Put him back now!"

Still fueled by unexplained protectiveness, Carson screamed and bodily tackled Franklin to the ground. Despite the heat and the sharp pain in his feet and legs, Harry's lashes fluttered closed and his expression turned almost peaceful. He saw the flames from underneath closed lids, but he also saw the two battling emotions.

He'd never controlled two people at the same time with opposing emotions. However, he remembered the night at Braun's manor with Astoria. He'd manipulated the emotions of Bruan's soldiers so far, he'd been able to make them commit suicide. He was a strong Empath; he just never allowed himself the opportunity to experiment oppressing the weak.

He'd never been interested.

The more dominant male needed to keep his anger, but Harry added a splash of fear and incompetence. His eyes slid open and he watched them move. They were the animals they claimed Harry to be as they fought each other with their hands. Scratching, tearing, and biting. Their wands lay just outside their reach, but their emotions fueled them, and they were determined to reach their end goal.

Harry smiled thinly.

Pouring more confidence in Carson, and less anger in Franklin, he watched the latter fall. Carson continued to hit the man in his skull with his knuckles, continuing until his hand was bloody and Franklin's skull turned malleable. The man was dead, or near dead, Harry couldn't tell. One thing was certain. Franklin wouldn't rise anytime soon.

"Auror Carson," Harry called through the man's heavy breathing. "Put out these flames."

Carson scrambled off Franklin and towards his wand. He grasped it with bloody hands and quickly extinguished the heat. Harry released a low breath, trying to regain his composure. His shirt was drenched with sweat as it clung to his body. Any longer and he would have passed out from heat exhaustion.

"Look what you did," Harry whispered. "Look what you did to Sirius Black. To me. To Auror Franklin."

Looking Carson in the eye, he watched as the man shivered and shed tears. A desperate sob escaped his lips as he looked back at his partner and Harry simply ignited a strong and overwhelming sense of shame and depression. The mind could only handle so much emotion at a certain level of intensity. If it grew too chaotic, too muddled, it would go in overdrive.

Perhaps he could drive him to insanity. What would be more satisfying? Suicide or a broken mind?

"Shame on you." Harry didn't dare touch the glass, sensing the heat, yet he stayed close enough to catch and hold Carson's eyes.

"No." Carson dropped his wand and clutched his head. "No. No!"

"Yes." Delivering him a wave after wave of confusion, happiness, sadness, self-loathing, despair, and anger, Harry pushed the mind to its limits. It would short-circuit. It would break. "You're the animal here. It should have been you on the ground. Your skull should have been cracked open, not Franklin's. It's the least you deserve for what you've done."

Someone entered the room and Harry glanced, expecting Aurors. To his surprise, whether dismay or relief, Riddle stepped inside quietly. The man was like a bloody shadow as he emerged from behind Carson's shaking form. The man took in Harry's soaking figure, the heat of the room, and with more interest, Franklin and Carson.

"Why don't you stand in the corner of the room and break open your skull?" Harry suggested, increasing Carson's manipulated emotions.

Carson turned and followed the order, his sobs shaking his body. He braced his hands on the wall and leaned forward, throwing his forehead into the cement wall. He did so again. And again. Harry felt no remorse for the scene in front of him.

This man was going to kill him. This man was going to kill Hermione and Ron. This man already killed Sirius Black.

Riddle inhaled deeply, his eyes as bright as they'd ever been. He tore his gaze from Carson's self-mutilation and observed Harry obsessively. "You certainly aren't a damsel in distress, child." He lifted a hand to his mouth, as if a giddy child, and covered his lips. His fingers twitched ever so slightly and his pupils dilated. "Impressive."

"Sorry if I ruined your ploy of seduction, Riddle. White knights aren't typically my preference anyway." Harry rocked to the heels of his boots to take off some of the heat and the pain. The skin at the bottom of his feet burned, the heat had been too strong.

"I daresay, after seeing what you are capable of, we can find something a bit more to your liking in terms of seduction ploys." Riddle smiled with teeth and his aura darkened.

"You forget that we are enemies."

"For now."

Harry narrowed his eyes on the man. "Sirius?"

Riddle inclined his head toward Carson, whose face was bloody and his nose mangled. "I'm afraid it's true."

"Carson! Stop!" Harry yelled out the command.

His voice was hoarse with suppressed tears and his entire body trembled with grief. What he'd said, or more importantly, what he didn't say to Sirius ate him alive. He should have said more. He'd wanted to say more to soothe his godfather's feelings of betrayal, but he hadn't wanted the Aurors to see that side of him.

His godfather died thinking he'd failed Harry. He died scared. And alone.

"Come here." Carson's emotions were haywire, yet Harry managed to pour obedience and loyalty into that mess of craziness. "Come here. Cast a preservative spell on yourself."

Riddle observed the interaction at the door, hardly lifting a finger to stop Harry or the Auror.

Carson followed the order, albeit slowly and awkwardly. His face was a bloody mess and his brain probably wasn't functioning correctly. He struggled with the preservative spell, needing Harry to repeat the incantation a couple times before he got it right. The man shuddered as his body slowly healed itself, particularly his brain and broken nose.

Harry smiled. "Now set yourself on fire."

The man never hesitated. He set himself on fire.

The screams were sudden and Riddle's rich laughter filled the room. Harry simply stared, feeling empty, yet slightly upset at the sight before him. Though Carson was tainted and responsible for his godfather's death, a part of him didn't feel right doing this. However, the stark urge for revenge tore him up inside.

He needed to do this. Not only for himself, but to prevent them from going after the Weasleys and Hermione.

It was his fault, Harry realized. They'd been right, after all. By revealing himself, he'd put those close to him in danger. He'd been selfish not to think of that beforehand. He'd thought of _everything_ else, but that. Perhaps he trusted the goodness of people to leave innocents alone, but this world was corrupt.

They would hunt his loved ones, even if they were innocent, just to get back at Harry.

The doors slammed open and Riddle abruptly doused water on Carson, extinguishing the fire. Aurors filled inside, their wands raised and their actions hurried. They surrounded the room, conveniently not pointing their wands at Riddle. After all, he _was_ the Minister and they saw him rescuing their coworker.

Harry cocked his head when he saw the figures dressed in black and plum robes. A woman was clearly the leader as she led the group of three men behind her. Judging from their robes, they were part of the Wizengamot. Her stern face took in the mess before addressing Riddle.

"Minister," she greeted coldly. "What happened in here?"

Riddle rose an eyebrow but addressed her evenly. "Madame Lane, it would seem as if these two Aurors came to kill Mr. Potter. They were the ones responsible for Black's death. I came into the room the exact moment he lit himself on fire." Riddle looked at Harry. "Evidently, it appears as if Potter has a very fascinating gift of making others bend to his will. Like the Imperious Curse."

Velma Lane. Well, wasn't this just ironically amusing.

"His Empathy, no doubt." Lane's lips thinned. "Where is Auror Shacklebolt?"

"Following a lead from _Custos,_ ma'am," an Auror replied snidely. He threw Harry a look. "It appears as if the serial killer is pulling our strings and making us chase false leads."

Harry continued to stare back at his spectators, his face expressionless, yet he allowed a small smile to curl the edges of his mouth. He could have most of them on their knees with fear and obedience. He'd have half of them fighting amongst each other and creating enough chaos for him to escape. Now that he'd embraced who he was, he was more than willing to harness the gift he'd cursed for the majority of his life.

It was useful, very much so. Eventually, he'd practice reaching even those who possessed Occlumency barriers.

Madame Lane stared at Harry, her pencil-thin eyebrows a mocking semblance of half circles. "The Wizengamot will take over Potter's captivity and his sentence. I feel as if our Department of Magical Law Enforcement has grown _lax_ when it comes to the highly publicized serial killer." She pursed her lips. "He will be kept underground with the Unspeakables. I hear it's where the Dementors like to linger."

Riddle twitched. "I am unaware there was a voting session on the issue of _Custos_."

"You were not invited, Minister Riddle. Either was Auror Shacklebolt." She motioned toward the Aurors. "Take Potter. We are going to deny him his little game."

Harry clasped his hands behind his back and chuckled. "You make one mistake, Mrs. Lane." She hardly paid him any attention; a feat she must have thought would deny him his amusement. "The game has already started. All the pieces are in their place."

"Very good for you, Potter." With that sarcastic quip, she turned her back and dismissed him.

"My favorite part of the game is when we reveal Kestrel."

Lane stopped short, causing the trio of men behind her to stop just as suddenly. "What did you just say to me, _boy_?" she asked chillingly, turning her head and pinning Harry with a look from the corner of her eye. She was a fierce woman and the men around her took a step back from the tone of her voice.

Harry, on the other hand, placed both hands on the glass and leaned forward. His breath teased the glass and he nearly kissed the cage. "Kestrel," he repeated silkily. "I daresay she's rather lonely these days."

"Bring in the Hit Wizards. _Now_!" Lane yelled, losing her composure.

The Hit Wizards were already in place. They poured into the room, not dressed in official robes, but Muggle combat attire. The blazing Ministry logo was in dark grey on their backs as they came slithering inside the room. They moved different from Aurors in the sense that they possessed more magical prowess, more physical dominance.

Harry watched them with intrigue as they approached his cage.

He crossed his arms over his chest and rested a hand against his face to center himself. They didn't have strong Occlumency barriers. With the exception of Riddle, only a select few had barriers he could not penetrate.

Perhaps he was bored, perhaps he felt numb from Sirius' death, perhaps he wanted to show off to Riddle and all the wizards who disrespected and did not take him seriously. Whatever the reason, Harry pressed his fingertips into the crown of his forehead and focused on creating chaos.

They had no idea who they were dealing with.

It was the ultimate challenge. With so many people in the room, Harry had to be creative. His Empathy was effective, not because they felt the manipulated emotion, but because they felt it with such intensity, they were slaves to said emotion. Someone whom Harry put under lust, for example, would not be able to resist sating himself or herself with single-minded purpose.

It would be amusing if he set the whole room aflame with lust. It would be a mass orgy, though he had more class than that.

He focused on the Hit Wizards first.

As they opened his cage, he hit the first wave of wizards with uncontrollable fear. The second wave of wizards with envy and hostility. And then the last wave with confusion. His reach spread across the room, affecting nearly three dozen individuals.

It was the largest radius he'd ever projected his Empathy before. It did not drain him. To Harry, it was just emotions he'd felt before. It was easy to conjure and spread like wildfire. Though the emotions they felt were suffocating, he knew it wouldn't last long, especially when the group was this large. But it was nearly intoxicating seeing the mass of chaos he'd successfully created.

Some wizards retreated to the corners of the room to tremble in fear. Some fought amongst each other. Some stood there blankly.

He marveled, only because he'd never realized he could accomplish _this._ Really, it was bloody impressive. He thought Empathy was a curse, and while it had severe downsides, he never considered how to properly embrace and use it. Sure, he'd used it on single victims, but this was an entirely different level of Empathy.

Calmly, he walked out of his cage and through the mass of wizards. However, as soon as his boots hit the ground, five enormous shapes of darkness swooped inside the room. The temperature of the room dropped considerably and the overwhelming taint filled the air.

Harry took a step back, nearly losing his grip on Empathy. With the Dementors present, Harry forcibly pulled back all the channeled emotions and only transmitted fear. Coupled with the Dementors, it was easy to bring all the Aurors and Hit Wizards to their knees.

He tried to keep a grasp on his Occlumency barrier. However, as slimy and cold hands grabbed his face and leaned in for a kiss, Harry lost all sense of control.

Shuddering, he was boneless in the Dementor's hold.

He was going to die.

Earlier, the prospect hadn't seemed ominous to him. He'd wanted to die, to leave the corrupt and darkness and embrace nothingness. But now, now that he'd found himself, he had so much left to do. He didn't want to leave Riddle as the victor. He didn't want to leave without tasting Riddle. Without claiming him. Without saving his friends and loved ones.

A brilliant white light seared the room and chased the Dementors away.

Harry slumped to his knees, shaking and trembling. His vision turned black at the edges, though he was cognizant enough to see Riddle staring down at him with his wand outstretched. How the Dark Lord was capable of producing a Patronus, Harry would never know. Surely, there wasn't an ounce of happiness and light in the man.

"It appears as if I got to play the white knight after all, Harry."

"Arsehole," Harry mumbled before blacking out completely.

**. . Collide . .**

"Please! Please! Help!"

Kingsley and the group of Aurors behind him all entered the home. The wards were down and the front door unlocked. As soon as they crossed into the threshold of the property, the hoarse and desperate screams sounded, almost as if there'd been a Silencing Charm erected.

Keeping his wand raised, Kingsley crossed through the living room and into the back bedroom. He paused, his boots just barely stepping into a puddle of blood. Motioning to the others to be careful, he turned the corner, stepping over the blood and spying the source of the hoarse screaming.

It was the woman they were looking for— Mary-Beth Wells.

She stood on her tiptoes, barely able to gain any sort of balance. A noose wrung around her neck and her arms bound behind her back. Deep gashes were located near her calf muscles, no doubt causing her excruciating pain. A sheen of sweat coated her white, pasty skin and a purple-blue hue decorated her face from the lack of oxygen.

Scattered around her were newspaper clippings, some stained with blood, others perfectly readable.

Kingsley kept his wand raised, watching her suspiciously while simultaneously glancing down at the news articles. They were Muggle, clearly, but that wasn't what surprised him. Obituaries. For children. Very _young_ children. Infants. He lowered his wand and felt a knotting sensation in his stomach. He felt ill.

"What did you do?" he found himself asking.

"Sir," Auror Grey said behind him. "She needs—"

"To answer our questions before we cut her down." He pointed at the news clippings. "What did you _do_?!" he roared.

He sensed his Aurors' surprise, though Kingsley focused solely on the woman. Despite his feelings toward Potter –toward _Custos—_ he knew the boy was sincere in his efforts to unveil the corrupt and the criminal. The newspaper clippings around the floor indicated this woman was responsible for these children.

He would not stand down until he heard everything.

"I—" she struggled to breathe as a sob rose up in her chest. "I swear I didn't do anything!"

"The children!" Kingsley snarled, stepping closer to her.

"No." She sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I just wrote about them. I covered the loose ends." Her toes desperately danced at the edge of the chair while her calves continued to release spurts of blood. "I swear. I only clean up the mess. Amycus Carrow is the one that deals with the children. I don't know anything more!"

"What do you mean _deals_ with the children?" Auror Grey inquired from behind Kingsley. Her voice was like steal.

Mary-Beth exhaled shakily. It took quite a while to muffle her hysteric sobs, though she eventually composed herself. " _Custos_ was here." She licked her lips and avoided all eye contact. "I knew he could have killed me, but he spared me my life if I talked. I just never thought I did anything wrong."

Kingsley stood there, feeling pity for her, yet staying immobile. He would not release her until he heard the full story.

"I honestly just do what Carrow tells me to. He takes children from their homes and stages their death. I make sure to write clean obituaries of the children. I interweave spells in the articles so that Muggles skim right over them. If they noticed the amount of infant deaths, they would begin to question that it belongs to something bigger."

"Stages their deaths?" Kingsley repeated, feeling relieved. "They are alive?"

"I don't know." Mary-Beth drew in a shaky breath. "All I know is that they're Muggle-born. I swear. That's all I do!"

Kingsley turned and looked at his men. "Bring me Carrow and summon the Unspeakables. I want them to comb over this crime scene. Grey, help me with Wells." Before he could move to untie Wells, a Patronus of an owl flew into the room.

" _Auror Shacklebolt, come to the Ministry immediately."_

He stared after the owl, vaguely identifying the Patronus voice as Madame Lane, the Head of the Wizengamot. Something was not right if she was summoning him. He had a hunch it had everything to do with Potter. Sharing a look with Auror Grey, he knew things were about to get far more complicated.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

**26\. Chapter Twenty-Six**

Harry slowly woke from his unconsciousness to the sound of his own breathing.

A black cloth was over his head, taking away his sight and preventing him from taking a deep, satisfying breath of air. He could feel their icy presence nearby, the Dementors. They were a teasing company, a warning. Harry was actually quite impressed with the Ministry for using them. It had been _expected,_ though he hadn't anticipated they'd tried to Kiss him without a proper trial.

Perhaps he'd pushed Madame Lane too far by mentioning her daughter.

No matter the reason, they weren't actively trying to Kiss him now. Harry mused it might have to do with Minister Riddle's authority. Though the Wizengamot could vote over the Minister for Magic, the man still had control over many aspects of the Ministry.

That bothered Harry. Riddle's obsession with him. _Voldemort's_ obsession with him.

Despite Harry's threat of unveiling him to the world, Voldemort still wanted to keep him alive. Moreover, it seemed as if he were almost eager with the results.

Harry's fingers curled alongside the armrests. Heavy chains rattled just slightly at the action, almost as if they sensed his consciousness. Perhaps the most disturbing thing about Voldemort's obsession was the fact that Harry returned it with equal ferocity. He wanted to hurt Riddle; he wanted revenge for what Voldemort did to him and his family.

Yet, despite his desire for revenge, despite finding out about all the things Voldemort was responsible for, he was still attracted to the Dark Lord; _still_ sickly thrilled at their game. Whenever he was in the man's presence, Harry always wanted to come out on top, to show off, and most disturbingly, be intimate with Riddle afterward.

Someone ripped the cloth off his head and a single light beat relentlessly down at him. Harry blinked lazily and looked up, seeing past the spotlight and above to the swarming Dementors. The distance allowed him to think straight, to hold in his nausea, but they still weakened him. Their taint still upset him.

"Harry James Potter."

Harry rolled his head back down and gazed across the courtroom.

The Wizengamot were mostly all established as they peered down at him. It wasn't very long ago that the Wizarding world changed their policies to allow defense attorneys and prosecutors into the courtroom. Every witch or wizard was allowed legal representation against the Wizengamot's votes.

It appeared as if he were an exception to the rule. How very predictable.

"You are being judged and sentenced today in reference to your crimes as the serial killer known as _Custos_." Madame Lane sat front and center, her mouth angled down into a fierce frown. "Your crime includes thirteen counts of murder—"

"Fifteen, Madame Lane," a younger man corrected impatiently. "Including Aurors Franklin and Car—"

"Several attempted murders," Madame Lane continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. "Several assaults on public law enforcement and those under the Ministry's protection, breaking and entering, initiating a lockdown of the Ministry without proper consent, blackmail, and several minor, yet still significant charges." She lifted her chin. "How do you plead?"

Harry's eyes swept blankly over Riddle and lingered on Kingsley Shacklebolt. Disappointment washed over him. Kingsley was supposed to be out in the field. No. It did not matter if Kingsley went after Carrow personally or if he had men do it. All that mattered was they got to Carrow's _on time._

Most everything was going according to plan so far. He hadn't anticipated such a dramatic interaction with the Aurors and Hit Wizards upstairs. At the time, anger had consumed him after hearing of Sirius' death. He'd wanted to play with them as if they were mere toys, easily disposable and readily available for the taking.

His Empathy was a gift he could not take for granted or use in overabundance, least his enemies find more ways to temper his influence. Dementors stopped him now, but he'd get stronger and immune to their presence.

"Your plead, Potter."

There were people behind him, sitting in the witness stands. He couldn't turn his head to observe, though he hoped some members of the press attended today's impromptu trial. Things were about to get chaotic in the Ministry. Moreover, this time, Harry would not be the one causing the insanity, rather the one orchestrating it.

"That depends on what time it is."

Lane's mouth closed with an audible _snap_ as a few members let loose a few chuckles _._ Someone, bless his soul, mumbled the time. Ten minutes to six. He was a bit ahead of schedule, but essentially, he couldn't have planned it any better.

"A guilty or not guilty plea would suffice, Potter," Barty Crouch stated neutrally.

"Guilty to what? Being _Custos_?" Harry's eyebrows lifted mockingly. "What sort of evidence do you have against me?"

Lane leaned forward. "Do not play coy, Potter! We all witnessed the influence you had on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"It _was_ a tad bit overdramatic, I admit," Harry whispered, though his voice carried. "I felt threatened with your Ministry's treatment of me. Not only was I defending myself from Aurors Carson and Franklin, who'd killed my godfather and nearly set me on fire, but also against your unjust restraining techniques and premature decision to lock me away with Dementors. Surely you are aware of what affect they have on Empaths."

Silence met his statement before someone next to Lane barked out in laughter. "You cannot be serious, Potter. You are now denying your connection to _Custos'_ murders?"

"How can I possibly deny my connection to _Custos_ when I never confirmed said connection in the first place?" Harry inclined his head, though the chains around his neck tightened automatically. "You are making false allegations."

Crouch leaned over to look down the row of his colleagues. "Auror Shacklebolt?"

Kingsley stared at Harry, his face petulant, yet contemplative. "He did not deny or admit to anything concrete, though the implications were all there." He licked his lips. "During his captivity, he gave a forbidding lead that led us to a brutally restrained female by the name of Mary-Beth Wells. She is connected to a series of kidnappings involving Muggle-born infants."

Harry strained his neck in order to look up at them, his expression entirely smug. Preening. Oh, this was just so beautiful. "Any word on the Carrows?" he inquired innocently.

It was so subtle, yet Harry quickly noticed Riddle's immediate attention. Carrow. Carrow. Of course the man would know who Carrow was. The two Carrows were members of his Inner Circle. Far more important than those peons that scramble so far down the totem pole, he barely knew they existed.

Just like Mary-Beth Wells.

Just like Lily Potter.

_Insignificant_. _Faceless._

After studying Riddle –no—after studying Lord Voldemort, Harry discovered a most _vital_ thing about playing with the Dark Lord. Never underestimate the man. Riddle was quick, he was bloody powerful, and he had many loyal followers. Harry would never be able to stand opposite of Riddle in a magical duel. If someone wanted to get one over on Riddle, they had to blindside him. Take him by surprise and make sure all the pieces fell together at the same _time._

Time was of the essence when it came to Voldemort. By the time Riddle realized he was under attack, it would be too late.

Harry had literally taken _time_ and warped it to his favor. He'd also moved lesser-known pieces across the board, pieces Riddle would not take notice of, simply because he thought so little of these people. These people were pawns, but in the large scheme of things, they were still part of Riddle's team.

They could be manipulated over to Harry's side of the board. If done properly, they would cause damage further up the chain.

"Mr. Potter, we are the ones conducting the interview." Madame Lane shifted, easily cutting off Kingsley before the man foolishly answered. "It has come to our attention that _Custos_ is a powerful Empath. He was able to penetrate the minds of his victims and—"

"I am not the sole Empath in the Wizarding world, Madame Lane," Harry replied happily.

Her lips thinned until there was nothing left but pinched skin. She did not like to be interrupted. No, why would she stand for that when she was the head of the Wizengamot _and_ her household? If Harry imagined hard enough, he could see the whip clutched tightly in her fist, ready to strike at the fool who challenged her word.

"Empaths are very in tune with others," Harry continued when he saw her open her mouth. She looked positively livid. "For instance…" he trailed off as he heard the clock strike six. His eyes fluttered closed and he hoped, beyond hope, that things fell into place. "I can sense your overwhelming guilt, your remorse, but oddly enough, you also taste _sour_."

"That is enough—"

He opened his eyes.

"You pretend to be the victim in a situation where you hold all the cards," he pressed. "It reminds me of a Light fanatic. You commit _evil_ for the greater good and pretend as if you're doing the right thing. Such is the case in wars between Light and Dark wizards. In the end, everyone has crossed over into the Grey, no longer remembering what it was they stood for in the beginning."

"Poetic and very enthralling, Mr. Potter," Riddle praised dryly. "Though I find it irrelevant to our current line of questioning."

Harry smiled. "Have you ever heard of the term… _crawling out of the woodwork,_ Minister Riddle and Madame Lane?" Without waiting for a response, he pressed onward. "I find creatures who are pushed and forced into the woodwork. Often times, they are the key to destroying Kings and Queens."

The Chamber door opened quietly and a set of bare feet slapped the polished, stone floor. It was silent upon her arrival, yet as she continued forward, into the light, the murmuring spread like wildfire. Madame Lane's eyes widened and her face turned horrified. It was if she'd seen a ghost.

Or more precisely, a ghost who'd escaped its confinements.

Harry watched his work unfold before the Wizengamot. Though the girl—young woman—must have aged since the last time seen in public, the majority of them recognized her. They'd find it hard to forget such a young woman, whose features were so pointed, so femininely petite, she looked like a mature child.

Her blonde hair was long, falling to the small of her back in greasy strands. As she walked forward, her hand reached out and ghosted across Harry's shoulder blades. Her skin was pale, so pale her blue veins stood out on her neck. She wore a robe that fell to her knobby knees, revealing her skinny ankles and red marks across her skin.

"Kestrel…Kestrel Lane?" someone breathed in shock. "I thought…"

"That I died?" she finished in question. Her pale grey eyes looked down at Harry and a grim sense of acceptance hardened her features. Turning back to the Wizengamot, she lifted her bony hands to her robe. "I've been held captive by my own mother and father for over three years for serving a Dark Lord. For practicing Dark Magic. _Custos_ released me."

She dropped her robe, revealing the welts and bruises across her naked body. What Harry found more engaging was the black tattoo on her left forearm. The tattoo was a serpent coiled into the shape of an angry 'S', looking strikingly familiar to Slytherin's Family Crest. That mark… that tattoo… Harry found that especially intriguing.

Lord Voldemort liked to mark what was his.

Harry felt his own forearm burn where the runes etched into his skin. He wasn't an idiot. He knew bonding with Salazar's wand had somehow linked him to Riddle. He did not know the side effects, however, nor did he care to find out. He knew it was in Riddle's favor, but he also knew Salazar's wand was far too convenient and powerful to surrender.

Whispers and cries of outrage erupted in the Chamber and Harry reclined, watching the chaos unfold. Madame Lane stood up, yelling at her coworkers to _'silence!'_ But how could they when such an allegation was brought before them? That one of their superiors faked her daughter's death and imprisoned her with such brutality?

There was something else amongst the shouts, albeit few and far between. It would grow in volume and consistency as the evening pressed onward.

_A Dark Lord._

Harry heard it. Sensed the spike of fear at the notion. Disbelief followed soon after. They were sheep. They would not truly acknowledge the threat until it personally affected them. They'd rather remain blind than live in fear. However, Harry was hoping some would be smart enough to play along, to unveil the stain across Britain before it blindsided them.

Green eyes caught Riddle's stare and Harry offered a truly wicked smile.

Voldemort had no idea what waited for him. The reappearance of Kestrel Lane would not set off any warning alarms, of course not. It was her story that would truly entangle Voldemort and _most importantly,_ Voldemort's followers. Harry wasn't entirely honest with Riddle earlier. This game wasn't about Harry unveiling Lord Voldemort to the world.

No, this was about Riddle unveiling himself by damning his own pawns. Most especially, this was about entrapping something of Voldemort's that Harry considered repayment for what Voldemort took from him.

The Dark Lord's Inner Circle.

As if on cue, the doors opened again and two Aurors ran inside. They dashed to Kingsley, whispering in his ear heatedly. Kingsley's eyes widened and he stood up quickly, nearly tripping over a fellow Wizengamot member in the process. It was chaos.

Complete and utter chaos.

All at his hands.

**. . Dreams . .**

"She's willing to surrender her memories, Sir." Auror Grey looked around at her fellow Aurors with an untrusting eye. "Though memories can be tampered with and manipulated, they would still be damning to Madame Lane. The Unspeakables are running diagnostic spells across Kestrel's body. They will be able to track the magical core used to inflict her wounds."

"A matter of time before it's confirmed to be the mother," Auror Sanders commented darkly. "No point addressing her as _Madame_ Lane if she's responsible for the girl's current condition. The Wizengamot's reputation will be questioned now… as will all their previous rulings. It doesn't matter if the girl was into shite she shouldn't have been into."

"But this is what _Custos_ wants!" another Auror countered fiercely. "This is his doing! He's toying around with all of us!"

"Even if he is, the evidence is all there," Grey hissed back. " _Custos_ is a hound!" She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the Aurors. "He literally _sniffs_ out the guilty party and follows the trail to their own pile of smelly shite." Silence hung in the air after her explicit comparison, though they all knew it to be true.

"He's an Empath with an obligation to unveil the guilty parties. To shine the spotlight on the accused." Kingsley grunted and observed his team closely. They were tired. All of them. Rest was essential, but when it came to time-sensitive cases, they would need to press onward. "Why do I have the impression _Custos_ is only doing this for his own gain?"

"He's creating chaos."

"For what reason, exactly?"

"I'd say to pull the foundations out from under the corrupted men and women who've established positions of authority."

"Then why isn't he doing it as he normally does it? One kill at a time. He's not exactly killing _anyone._ He's making other wronged individuals come forward with their stories." A sigh of frustration.

" _Custos_ is the textbook definition of a psychopath. He—"

"Is he though?" Johnson interrupted. "Psychopaths cannot feel emotions; they only know how to pretend in order to fit into society. Clearly, _Custos_ experiences emotions."

"He _has_ to!" Sanders argued fiercely. "He's a bloody Empath, for Merlin's sake!" He looked at Kingsley. "We have a textbook psychopath in custody," he repeated. "A psychopath cursed with Empathy. He carefully plans out every detail in advance and he's highly organized. We –the Ministry— are in this situation right now because _he_ planned it this way."

The Aurors all leaned back and contemplated. Kingsley exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The Wizengamot called an adjournment after Kestrel's sudden appearance. It would take long hours, perhaps days to flesh out the situation behind the Lane girl's captivity. As such, it would bring ill press to the Wizengamot and extend _Custos'_ trial.

Kingsley stilled.

Since Kestrel appeared in the Wizengamot Chamber, he and his men stopped calling _Custos_ by his true name. Potter. Harry Potter. It was _Custos_ now, almost as if the serial killer had completely consumed Harry Potter's identity. He felt a pang of remorse for James and Lily Potter. Their son had tarnished their family name.

"We're sending out a team to apprehend Severus Snape," Auror Grey informed tiredly. "Once we search the location Kestrel provided us to the off-site potions lab, we will see if there is any physical evidence of Snape's involvement. Any fingerprints, hair follicles, anything material."

"Oh, we'll find evidence." Sanders ran a frustrated hand through his hair. " _Custos_ made sure this fit together neatly."

"He's clearly trying to show us something," Grey shot back. "Perhaps it's time we open our eyes to what's hiding out there instead of competing in a pissing contest with _Custos_."

Kingsley turned away from his team and considered the door to Potter's holding cell. Not only did Kestrel share that her parents practiced extreme measures to smoother the Dark Arts from her, but she'd confessed to all of her _own_ crimes. Kestrel Lane was a powerful witch who'd acted as a harvester for potion ingredients. She retrieved many illegal ingredients for equally illegal potions.

Brewing said potions were a one-way ticket to Azkaban. Though she and Severus Snape hardly ever interacted, she was quick to point him out as the Master who'd brewed the potions.

For an unidentified _Dark Lord._

He shook his head and felt something sour settle in the back of his throat. What added to the mess were the two Carrows. Missing. As were the Lestranges, the Malfoys, and the Greengrass couple—all parties were wanted for questioning involving the Mary-Beth Wells case. Bellatrix Lestrange was already a wanted criminal, but to hear her name connected to all _this_ just set Kingsley further on edge.

"Sir, where are you going?" Sanders inquired as Kingsley walked away.

"To speak with Potter. Alone."

Ignoring their sharp looks, Kingsley entered the room, squinting against the bright light. Under advisement from the Wizengamot, Dementors occupied the room, barricaded near the ceiling to restrict their wandering. Their presence was all that was needed to subdue Potter, or so they assumed. No one truly knew the extent of _Custos'_ power.

Across the room, Potter sat on the floor of his cage, leaning against the glass and calmly observing Kingsley's approach. He looked almost like a porcelain doll, possessing a detached and darkly handsome aura. Almost a spine-chilling impartiality. Cold green eyes watched him, showing absolutely no sign of emotion.

Ironic that an Empath could be so void.

"I'm sorry," Kingsley started softly, his gut wrenching wildly as he said the words. They had to be said. It weighed too heavily on him. "About Sirius. We all lost him today, but I know what he meant to you."

Potter continued staring.

"It was recently confirmed Auror Carson and Franklin were patients of Doctor Cliff." Kingsley looked down at his hands before clasping them behind his back. He stopped just inches from Potter's cage and forced himself to look at the young man. "We both know Cliff had a way of immortalizing his patients and making them view others as if—"

"As if we're all sheep? Carbon copies of the same inconsequential person, just taking in air and taking up unnecessary space?" Potter inquired quietly, his demeanor still creepily empty. "Many humans feel that way towards others. We are much like animals in the sense that we are about sole survival and flourishment. Others, especially those who are not our loved ones, come last. Cliff just nurtured that instinct into a dominant and prevailing trait."

Kingsley stared, simply because Potter had a way with words and a way of delivering them with preciseness. "That's what he makes killers feel. That everyone but themselves don't deserve to take precedence in this world." He licked his dry lips, seeing his wife. Seeing her light now gone. "But what about the patients he manipulates into taking their lives? What does he make _them_ see?"

Potter's lips parted into a soft exhalation of breath. "They are failures."

Heat blossomed across Kingsley's face and he dropped his hands from behind his back. His fingers curled into fists at the words. His wife was not a failure, though Cliff found a way to make her believe it.

"They are _his_ failures," Potter rectified softly. "I am certain he attempted to make all his patients commit homicide, to make them see other humans as he saw them. Trash. Rubbish. Animals. He made it his life mission to create as many exterminators as possible. However, some patients proved too strong to his influence."

Having an idea where this was going, Kingsley pressed a curled fist against his mouth and shook his head. "Don't."

Potter offered a small smile. "Your wife harbored far too much devotion for humankind, a rarity. Cliff could not penetrate her goodness and create an exterminator, so he turned that hatred inward. For your wife, it was far easier to execute herself than it was others." Black eyebrows rose. "A very pure trait."

He turned his back abruptly and blinked through his tears. Overwhelming grief caused his face to crumble and he allowed himself a moment of weakness. That was exactly Rebecca. Exactly. Such a precious, warm-hearted individual. She could have never harmed another, no matter how much darkness Cliff injected inside her.

Potter allowed him ample time to recover before asking, "You harbor guilt over Sirius, why?"

Using the heels of his palms, Kingsley wiped away his tears and composed himself. "Carson and Franklin were mere field Aurors. The Aurors watching you were trainees, new to the _Custos_ taskforce. I needed all the help I could get tracking Wells, so I let rookies guard you. The chaos surrounding Sirius' death distracted them and they abandoned post. I trusted them to do their job."

"They would have hunted Sirius down no matter who they were, where they were, and what profession they were in. They saw him as means to get back at _me._ There was nothing you could have done differently to stop Sirius' death." Potter sounded weary, as if he did not want to talk about Black.

Kingsley turned back around, fully composed and as sharp as he'd been all day. "Are you like Cliff?"

His question was vague, but he knew _Custos_ was smart enough to decipher the meaning. He watched the young man roll the question around in his mind, his face a perfect mask of icy allure.

"I used to think I was the exact opposite," was all Potter said.

"You help others," Kingsley argued.

"To sate my own pleasures." Potter slowly pushed off from the wall and sat up. He drew up a knee and cupped it with a lazy hand. "When you can sense the absolute taint in the world, Auror Shacklebolt, you start seeing everyone differently. You get tired of tolerating the taint and letting them prey on the innocent."

"What do you do?" Kingsley asked. "Do you catch scent of the truly wicked and observe from a distance until you gather evidence? Is that what you did to Madame Lane?"

For the first time since Kingsley's arrival, Potter revealed an emotion. Amusement. "I came here for one thing, and in order to survive, I had to anticipate the results of my captivity. It was _convenient_ to indict Madame Lane simply because it would forestall any proceedings. You'd be surprised at how many of your Wizengamot members are tainted and hiding things."

It unnerved him, Potter's confession. There were more like Lane in positions of authority. "You have a very powerful gift," he admitted, his mind racing. What would he do if he were like Potter? He couldn't imagine what it felt like, nor how long it would take to drive him into insanity.

"Perhaps." Potter tapped his knee and contemplated Kingsley. "Did you discover Gibbon?"

"You mean to say, did we discover him in time?" Kingsley quirked an eyebrow. "Yes. He is alive, but in recovery. We found him in bad shape at the Carrow residence, though you knew that, didn't you?" He shook his head at Potter's persistent stoicism. "He gave us quite the story. He's a criminal serving a Dark Lord, but he failed in retrieving a magical artifact for Lucius Malfoy, a man who is allegedly in possession of many illegal and Dark artifacts."

"Allegedly."

"Yes." Kingsley crossed his arms over his chest. "We need a warrant to search Malfoy's premises."

Potter's mouth twitched. "Always by the book."

"That's more than what I can say about you, Potter."

They surveyed each other in silence before Potter leisurely stood up. He stretched marginally, appearing like an agitated and stiff cat. Taking a few fluid steps forward, he met Kingsley at the edge of the cage. He probably hadn't slept in a while, though he looked wide-awake and fully capable of pulling the appropriate strings.

Kingsley knew his Aurors were on the right track when it came to _Custos._ The man wanted them exactly where they were. He'd planned every detail.

"Gibbons also had a mark on his forearm, the same mark as Mary-Beth Wells and Kestrel Lane. They all acknowledged they served a Dark Lord, though we could only get Kestrel to say the name _Voldemort_." Kingsley swept a careful eye across Potter's expression. "The names Snape, Black, Lestrange, Carrow, Malfoy, and even Greengrass came up as associates to this Dark Lord. I anticipate there will be more come tomorrow."

"Some very prominent names." Potter smirked.

"Kestrel won't be cleared, you know, either will Wells or Gibbons. They have all confessed to crimes that will guarantee them some form of a sentence." He exhaled in frustration. "You go to all the trouble to get them to confess, and in Kestrel's case, rescue her. Why would she come forward if she knew what waited for her?"

Potter looked away from Kingsley and slowly started to pace the length of his glass prison. "Have you ever experienced the blinding need for revenge?"

Briefly, Kingsley thought of Doctor Cliff. If _Custos_ hadn't murdered him, Kingsley wondered if he'd go through desperate measures just to get the man indicted. "I can't say that I've felt anything so strong, at least personally. It is my job to extract vengeance within the confinements of the law."

That got a chuckle out of Potter. "In Kestrel's case, she would rather rot in Azkaban if it meant her mother would be in the cell next to her. In the case of Wells and Gibbons, well, fear made them talk. They were in precarious positions. They know, without a doubt, that the very same Lord they pledge their loyalty to, will kill them. Foolishly, they think the Ministry can protect them."

"We are protecting them."

"Not good enough."

It was time to address it. Kingsley avoided it long enough. "So this is what it's really about. Revealing a Dark Lord in our midst?"

Potter simply blinked at him.

"Who is it?"

"I think you know that answer, Mr. Shacklebolt."

He shook his head, only because he could not fathom it, nor did he want to believe it. "It can't be." He rubbed an agitated hand against his mouth, imagining the Minister. "It can't be."

"But it can and it is." Potter clapped his hands once. "The unfortunate thing is that _he_ has grown and festered so completely, his roots are imbedded in Britain's very soil. If you cut down the tree, it will grow back quite viciously. He's been planning this for decades. There is no stopping him."

"Then what do you suggest?"

The door opened and Auror Grey poked her head inside. She looked at Potter before her eyes landed on Kingsley. "We received a warrant to search the Malfoy premises, sir."

Kingsley nodded and turned his back on Potter. He noticed Grey contemplating Potter's turned back, some indescribable expression clouding her features. She glanced at Kingsley quickly, before refocusing on Potter. He knew that look. There was a stubborn defiance in her.

"Potter."

Pausing, Kingsley looked over his shoulder at _Custos._ The young wizard kept his back turned toward them, yet his head inclined with acknowledgement.

"Thank you." Grey's words were sincere, hard and firm with confidence. "For saving my son."

Without another word, she turned and left the room. Kingsley watched her go, feeling her words at the tip of his own tongue. _For saving my wife._ He was able to muffle them, however, though he knew Potter could sense his agreement with Grey and his strong feeling of gratitude. For now, that's all that he could offer Potter.

It still didn't change anything.

They were still on opposite sides of the law.

"Kingsley."

Pausing once again, this time in surprise, he gave Potter his attention. _Custos_ turned to face forward, staring at him as if he could see through him with those unnerving eyes of his.

"I gave you the clues to find those missing Muggle-born infants at the crime scene. Don't disappoint me."

He had Unspeakables combing over the evidence, but Kingsley figured he would need to relook at things with his Aurors. He nodded firmly, reassuring Potter he wouldn't slack on this particular case. Clearly, those Muggle-born infants meant something to Potter. At least he showed enough empathy for the lives of innocents.

When he turned back around to exit the room, Potter stopped him once more.

"You asked me what you should do." The words were spoken softly with a hint of dark amusement. "Run."

**. . & Darkness. .**

He wasdark, seductive, moreover, powerful.

Barty thought all those traits once described Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort. No one could possibly compare to such an influential wizard. However, as soon as he heard about _Custos,_ his persistent obsession revolved around another. Harry James Potter, the dark savior of the Wizarding world. Such a fine specimen and wholly unattainable. The Dark Lord had his claws into Potter, branding him with an imaginary mark of ownership.

It made _Custos_ that more delicious in Barty's eyes.

"Took you long enough, Barty."

"I got you out, didn't I?" He pouted. "Or, rather my father." He slapped his father on the shoulder, causing the _Imperio'd_ man to stumble forward awkwardly. "I never underestimated my old man. He does have some useful connections."

He looked at Potter from the corner of his eye, admiring. The thick, dark eyelashes surrounding those pretty, yet defiant green eyes were simply palatable. Mm. Moreover, that springy, athletic body, which easily deceived spectators into thinking Potter a lithe and fragile being, roped with unbridled strength and deadly force.

He admired _Custos_ , wanting nothing more than to have the serial killer dominate him. What he wouldn't give to lie under Potter on his hands and knees, get choked, and pounded from behind—

"Barty," Potter murmured again as he maneuvered Crouch Senior inside the glass prison. "Your lust is utterly prodigious." A sly smirk. "Perhaps, when you get me out of here, I may give into your desires."

"The Dark Lord would cut off my cock and force it down my throat if that were to happen." Barty sauntered up to the cage and took out a flask. "Merlin, but wouldn't it be worth it? If I could have what belongs to the Dark Lord, at least for a few hours, any punishment would be worth it. Especially if it were you."

"I don't belong to him."

"Mm, I wish that were the case."

His eyes drifted upward, watching the Dementors hit the invisible barrier that kept them confined. Thank Merlin for small favors. He didn't like those buggers. Already, he was cold and rather lackluster.

Snapping out of his stupor, he plucked a few hairs from Potter's head and put it inside the bubbling potion. He then grabbed a few hairs from his father's scalp and added it to another vial. Holding it out to Potter, he watched the serial killer take a cautious sniff, as if checking for abnormalities of the Polyjuice, before tipping it back.

As his face shifted, he stripped.

_Fool_ , Barty thought as the shirt came off and abruptly the pants. He should have treated Barty to a strip tease _before_ he ingested essence of his father. What could have been a delicious sight was now marred by sagging skin and hair. Mourning for a moment, Barty realized he held Potter's essence and rebounded quickly with glee.

"Are you certain you don't want me to pose as you?" Barty inquired innocently, imagining all the things he could do with Potter's body and his hands. "I think I'd make a far more convincing _Custos_ than my father."

"This isn't about convincing anyone. It's about getting out of here. The both of us." The naked Potter—now turned Crouch Senior— took the Polyjuice Potion and forced it down his father's throat. "When the Dark Lord calls you, I suggest not answering. You are the only member of the Inner Circle left—"

"With the exception of Severus," Barty sang, magically removing his father's clothes. He shuddered. Two of them. "You gave him special treatment, simply because you wanted him to rot in Azkaban as quickly as possible. Can't say I blame you." He watched as his father's body morphed. "Besides, I will answer my Lord's call. I am still loyal; only, this is the most fun I've had. It beats playing with Muggles."

That earned a sharp look from Potter. Barty grimaced at the look, remembering it as a child.

"I'm surprised he hasn't called you yet."

"Oh, he's been calling others since the trial. I am never his first choice of solider, regrettably." His dramatic sight abruptly turned into an appreciative moan as his father's body morphed into a naked Potter. "Be rest assured, the Dark Lord is on your trail. More appropriately, on your heels."

"Which is why we need to hurry." Potter straightened his new clothes on his body while Barty mournfully dressed his father. "I may be ahead of him now, but that will change if I cannot get out of here."

They moved throughout the room, staging it appropriately and putting things back in order. The group of other Wizengamot members, all under Barty's infamous Imperious, stood on the sidelines, watching with void eyes. Barty, dressed in his own guise, grabbed Potter by the shoulder and guided him to the door.

It was relatively easy to break someone out of the Ministry, especially if one was willing to cast Unforgiveables left and right.

At the door, however, two Aurors greeted them with their wands raised and leveled. Before Barty could attack, a hand landed on his forearm and forced his wand arm down. He looked to Potter, surprised to see him staring intensely at the two Aurors. They had to know it was _Custos_ ; they wouldn't have raised their weapons against the real Barty Crouch.

After a lengthy exchange, the two Aurors lowered their wands and stepped aside for the group.

Potter nodded firmly and lead the _Imperio'd_ wizards through the corridors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His strides were different from Crouch Senior in the sense that he possessed more of a fluid grace, more of a feline agility as opposed to choppy steps of brute confidence.

"Your Empathy?" Barty inquired. "Did you—"

"No." Potter tipped his hat to passing wizards in a very similar manner as Crouch Senior. "They did that on their own free will."

Clearly, Barty wasn't the only wizard who empathized with _Custos_. He'd known there were others, he just figured Aurors would lay down their lives to either destroy _Custos_ or contain him. But everyone had their own story, didn't they? Predicting one's actions based on stereotypical beliefs would surely end up in disaster.

Barty sent the other Wizengamot members on their way as he and Potter clambered into the lift.

"Are you a masochist?"

His eyes widened and he slowly looked at Potter's profile. "Yes," he replied simply. What a silly question. "I get immense gratification from handsome wizards punishing me."

Potter eyed him narrowly as they rode the lift. "So I shouldn't feel… obligated to protect you when Voldemort punishes you?" A slow smirk curled his upper lip. "I suppose that frustrates him. That you look forward to punishment."

"Oh, don't feel obligated to rescue me, though the vision is appealing. I haven't had my Lord's sole attention for quite some time." He pouted. "He usually does not punish me. He knows how I feel with punishment, therefore, he chooses to ignore me as an alternate. In this case, however, he will be absolutely livid."

That earned him another look.

"What _do_ you plan on doing to the others?" Barty asked as their lift came to an abrupt halt at the Atrium. The doors opened to reveal the raving crowds of protesting witches and wizards. "You have not shared that detail with me."

"All in due time, Barty."

He watched Potter stand at the Atrium and stare at the crowd. The young wizard hadn't seen them before, probably hadn't realized that so many people were following his case with such passionate opinions. Barty watched him watch the protestors, intrigued at the plethora of emotions that crossed the serial killer's expression.

And then pain laced through his forearm.

Barty doubled over and grabbed his forearm, hissing with pleasure and excitement. A deranged laugh escaped his throat and spit flew from his lips. Just as suddenly, the alarms blared across the Ministry and a lockdown commenced.

Potter jumped from his position and threw up an arm. A pale wand raced from nowhere and slapped his palm, like that of an eager puppy returning to its Master. Barty felt the same pull, the same necessary drive to reunite with this Lord. He staggered toward the closing grates, following Potter before they could shut down.

Both of them rolled under and Apparated just before the grates slammed closed.

Barty allowed the Dark Lord's pull to guide him in his Apparition. A part of him mourned being separated from Potter already, though he knew he would see the serial killer again. The Dark Lord would _never_ let the man out of his sights once he reclaimed the boy.

Landing on his knees on the hard, stone floor, Barty lowered himself further into a proper bow. "My Lord," he greeted, feeling the sharp pain stab through his knees and up his back from the hard landing. "How may I please you tonight?"

Silence met his inquiry and Barty chanced a peek up at his Master. The Dark Lord stood, dressed in a black, hooded cloak. With the lowered hood, and his ageless features revealed, the man currently wore a mask of dark impassiveness. Red eyes watched him closely. Judging from the man's aura and his expression, Barty knew the man would not tolerate much tonight.

"How very surprising," the Dark Lord murmured quietly. "Barty Crouch Junior is the only member of my Inner Circle to answer my call. He also happens to be a _Custos_ supporter."

Barty opened his mouth and gasped. "My Lord, how very disrespectful of the others!"

"You've betrayed me."

For the first time in a long while, Barty lost his glee and slumped in absolute submission. He did not want to die. Where was the fun in that? "Never, My Lord. I was only helping _Custos_ escape from the Ministry _._ It was fun. I did not and still don't know his end result for the others." He placed his forehead on the floor. "He would not tell me, though I know them to be missing."

"Give me your arm. We will end this now."

Barty scrambled to his knees and pulled back his sleeve to present the Dark Lord his mark. He knew the Dark Lord could use the mark to find the others. He hadn't told that to Potter. Barty knew when to cause trouble, but he also knew when to avoid crossing the line.

As much fun as it was to help Potter escape the Ministry, it was time for the Dark Lord to reunite with his Inner Circle.

The Dark Lord's wand pressed against the mark and they transported away. Barty laughed at the whirlwind of pain and time and space. Alongside the Dark Lord, he bathed in the man's aura, wondering how he could possibly feel content with Potter when it was the _Dark Lord_ who possessed the drug, the addiction.

They landed in an abandoned warehouse. "How cliché," Barty commented, disappointed that _Custos_ would hide the Inner Circle here, of all places. "I thought _Custos_ had a flair for the dramatics."

The corridor was dark, yet Barty discerned broken glass everywhere on the floor. It crunched noisily underneath his boots as he followed the Dark Lord down the hall. They passed an empty room that smelt oddly like blood and piss. Barty sneered as he moved on to the next one.

A photograph fluttered to the ground in front of the closed door.

Vaguely, Barty recognized the redheaded woman as Lily Potter and the man as the late James Potter. In the dark ambiance of the warehouse, the single photograph of the happy couple seemed almost unnerving. His lips twitched against the unsettling feeling and he looked to his Lord.

The man paid little regard for the photograph as he opened the closed door with a flick of his wand.

Upon the door opening, objects fell from the ceiling. Barty took a step back as small chess pieces rained down in the room and hit the ground with an echoing _thud._ One porcelain piece rolled to a stop at Barty's feet. Instantly, he noticed that they weren't random chess pieces, but all varying forms of the Knight.

Looking up, Barty stared at the figure slumped back on a rickety chair. The smile on the figure's mouth was unnatural and sickly twisted. Situated in the middle of the room, with glass chess pieces shattering around her, sat a dead Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord's most trusted and valuable servant.

**. . Collide. .**

Malfoy's home proved to be a holding cell of Dark artifacts and illegal possessions.

There was only two things missing.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Just like the missing Carrows. The missing Lestranges. The missing Black and the Greengrass couple. Kingsley had his suspicions that the Dark Lord had possession of his most valuable followers. They had to be valuable. All families mentioned as being close to the Dark Lord were prestigious in both gold, power, and influence. Above all else, pure-bloods.

Kingsley knew he and his Aurors worked against the clock. Perhaps that was why _Custos_ insisted on having things fall into their laps with such quick succession. They were working against the Dark Lord. Clearly, they hadn't worked fast enough. Voldemort hid away his most treasured—with the exception of Severus Snape, of course— and Kingsley felt as if he'd failed.

Nonetheless, they'd gotten another lead.

Relooking at the news articles scattered across Mary-Beth Wells' floors, they'd reorganized them in the same order they'd found them. _Custos_ had underlined letters and words, bringing them to their current whereabouts. A store in Knockturn Alley. He didn't know what to expect, what they would find, but he brought enough backup to make this mission successful.

As they surrounded the building, he nodded to his men once receiving confirmation from the Unspeakables. They took down the wards. They were ready.

The Hit Wizards accompanied them and they took the liberty of going inside first. Kingsley waited back until he received the signal that it was clear. As soon as he saw the flash of blue, he sprinted forward, anticipation burning hotly. If they'd found the infants… if they had saved them…

Entering the store, his hopes sank into inky blackness.

It looked like a fire burned for hours. It was empty for the most part, save for a stray, burnt crib pushed against the ashy walls. From what he could tell, there were no child corpses, just emptiness and an echo of what was once there. Slowly, he turned his eyes to the elephant in the room.

There, in the middle of the room, sat three corpses. They pressed up against each other, creating a mockery of a star-shaped symbol with their spread legs. Despite the smoke and the ash around them, their faces were clear of debris, making it easy to identify them.

Kestrel Lane, Mary-Beth Wells, and Andrew Gibbons.

Above their heads was an acid-green symbol, the same 'S' symbol etched into their forearms.

Kingsley turned away from the scene, feeling anger. Anger at himself for not being quick enough. Anger at the Ministry for housing such corruption as Minister Riddle. Anger at _Custos,_ who clearly knew everything from the start, but wanted to keep it as part of his entertainment. Though, to be fair, the serial killer had warned him about the lax of security.

Just hours ago, the three were under Ministry protection. However, who could Kingsley trust when the corruption spread throughout all Departments of the Ministry?

Slowly, he turned back around to look at the corpses and the mark.

Rather suddenly, he realized he was a participant in a game. A game between Tom Riddle and Harry Potter.

Across the room, a leopard Patronus bounded towards him and Kingsley's sinking feeling only intensified. _"Auror Shacklebolt, Custos has escaped."_

**. .Dreams. .**

"Look at all you," Harry crooned lovingly, admiring his pets, his possessions. Not his, mind, but _Voldemort's_ possessions. That made them all the more valuable to him.

Behind the blood wards, the members of Voldemort's Inner Circle leered at him. They were dehumanized. Filthy. Their own shite piled in the corner, as they had nowhere else to go but in front of the others. Their bodies were stripped naked and their jewelry removed.

He lifted his hand and gently caressed the pulsating wards. The wards were the strongest a witch or wizard could possibly erect, simply because it was _blood magic._ All it took was a Greengrass member to stay inside the wards and a Greengrass to create the ward. The barrier would work for all those situated within the confinements of the runes. Moreover, the only way to destroy it was to kill Astoria.

Also, what Harry thought was most ingenious, was that Voldemort couldn't track the men and women inside this rune.

It was so deliciously satisfying.

"Take away those fancy robes and those high-brow society mannerisms and you're just like the rest of us." Harry smiled thinly. "Animals and so very human. It's almost pitiable to see you like this."

" _Potter!"_ Lucius Malfoy spat sourly. He came to a stop directly in front of Harry, his nude form surprisingly appealing despite the grime coating his skin. "You will not get away with this. The Dark Lord will extract justice."

"Justice, hm?" Harry cocked his head to the side. "I dearly hope he does." He considered his fingernails. "As of now, the Ministry is swarming all your homes, all your belongings. Touching it all, tainting it all. They are souring your reputations and declaring you a fugitive until you turn yourself in for questioning."

Malfoy stared at him, possessing a surprising amount of ice.

"You wanted to support a Dark Lord," Harry continued. He dropped his hand from the blood ward and took a step back. "Then you should embrace your life as a wanted criminal. I dearly hope you didn't believe it would always be high society with luxury champagne and fine silk robes." He cast a sweep across the defiant and hateful expressions. "I will try to remember to feed you tomorrow. Unless, of course, I am otherwise preoccupied."

Turning, he channeled a wave of unrestrained horror across the underground cell and climbed up the ladder to the sounds of fearful whimpers. Reaching the top, he ascended above ground and slammed the door shut, casting them in complete darkness.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. Real life has been very, very busy lately and I haven't been able to respond to reviewers this time around. Or update as quickly as I'd hoped. Fortunately, I had this chapter half-written and was able to get some down time today. I do appreciate ALL OF YOU who actually took the time to review.
> 
> So thank you.
> 
> As always, grammar errors/typos. It's late and I wasn't able to properly edit.

**27\. Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"I just can't believe it."

Ron shook his head at their persistent denial. Rubbing his hands together, he scraped his fingernails against his palms with irritation. "It's true. All right? It's true!" He looked sternly at Ginny and his parents.

The other Weasley brothers left long ago, expressing the need to go back to their families after properly mourning Harry and Sirius. That left Molly, Arthur, Ron, and Ginny to sulk around the dinner table, the majority of their dinner untouched and forgotten. Ron's plate was empty, however, as he didn't see the point in wasting food.

"That doesn't mean I can't believe it, Ronald," Molly reiterated calmly. She'd long ago taken a calming draught with her tea. "Poor Harry. We should have done something _more_ after the death of his parents. And Sirius! I can only imagine what he went through just before… just before they killed him."

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and Arthur patted her shoulder solemnly, trying to offer some sort of comfort. Ginny sat slouched in her chair, not saying much, but she didn't need to. Ron could only imagine what she was feeling. Having someone she loved play her for a fool… they all felt like that, just not as intimately.

"I'm not going to give up on him."

Ron's eyes widened at his mother's confession. More so, he was horrified to witness his father nod alongside her, as if he actually _agreed._ What was most unexpected, however, was Ginny. Her expression cleared and after a moment of silence, she pressed her lips together and nodded once.

She noticed Ron's expression and brown eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Don't look at us like that, Ron. He hurt us. He hurt all of us, but that doesn't mean we don't love him. You can't just turn on him after so many years together." Her mouth formed something of a grimace. "Don't you think he at least deserves to tell his side?"

Slowly, Ron stood up, trying to reign in his frustration and anger.

He lost it.

"He's a serial killer! He murders people!" he yelled. "He's manipulated all of us!" Flailing his hands in the air, he tried to get them to _see._ "He killed a man and maimed him into a puppet!"

"Something you thought was _bloody wicked_ if I remember your account correctly," Ginny responded icily.

Ron's face turned bright red with anger, with humiliation. "That was before I knew Harry was the one who did it."

Throwing his chair against the table, he stormed up the stairs, ignoring his mother's cry. Fueled by his negative emotions, he climbed to the top of the house and out onto the roof. He exhaled through his clenched teeth and closed his eyes against the cool wind. No matter how brisk the air was, it did not cool his fevered face.

His lips moved on their own accord as he tried to muffle a sob. Clutching his shirt material around his waist, he stood amongst the stars and tried to steady his racing pulse.

"You always come up here when you are upset."

Ron flinched horribly at the voice. Opening his eyes, he spied Harry crouching across the roof a short distance away. He was dressed in all black with a pair of combat boots and leather gloves. There were no glasses perched on his nose and his hair seemed tamer than usual as he parted it to the side. What unsettled Ron the most, however, was his aura.

Dark and lethal, with an abundance of sly confidence. Despite that unsettling aura, Harry's green eyes were soft and he gazed up at Ron with an air of surrender.

"Go away," Ron whispered icily, hating this Harry. It wasn't _his_ Harry, his best mate. "I can't even look at you."

"I get it," Harry said slowly. "You're upset with me. You feel betrayed—"

"Don't use that on me!" he shouted hoarsely at the mention of feelings. Of emotions. He threw out his hand, swatting it in _his_ direction _._ "I heard about what you can do… what you did to the Hit Wizards and the Aurors with your freaky Empathy. They say that's how you _hunt_ people. How you murder human beings. Don't you dare manipulate my emotions."

 _Custos_ remained crouched, yet his face softened into pity. "The only time I ever considered using my Empathy on you, Ron, was to give you enough confidence to tell Hermione how you really feel. Clearly, from your inaction, I decided against it."

"You don't have the right to talk about Hermione." Ron felt another spike of uncontrollable anger. "What you made her do, what secret you made her carry, destroyed her. You made her your accomplice! What would happen if the Aurors found out she knew what you were doing? They would arrest and sentence her."

Harry suddenly stood up and Ron took a startled step back, his pulse beating crazily.

Gloved hands raised calmly. "I'm not going to hurt you, Ron."

Tears stung his eyes. "You already did!" He wiped at them impatiently, hating how he felt, hating Harry. "Look what you did to Ginny. You manipulated her. You _used_ her. Can you imagine how dirty she feels? That's my baby sister! You're a bloody monster!"

His hands shook wildly the longer Harry remained inactive and calm. He took a step closer to the other man, noticing Harry didn't step away. He didn't defend himself.

"And Sirius!" Here, Harry looked down, showing just a margin of weakness. Ron pounced on it eagerly. "You killed him."

"I know," Harry admitted softly. "And I put the rest of you in danger."

Ron swung his fist and hit Harry squarely in the face. The serial killer did nothing to counter the attack, nor did he even put up his arms in defense. They said he was skilled with his body. That _Custos_ took advantage of a wizard's weakness by exceling in physical combat. Yet, here he was, letting Ron take a swing.

And another.

And another.

"Fight back, you coward!"

Harry fell to the ground, his nose bleeding and his face already swollen. "I came here to warn you," Harry said evenly. "I know you will be tempted to do the opposite, but you need to stay away from Riddle." Tired green eyes looked up at Ron. "I did something to piss him off royally, Ron. He'll use you against me. He'll destroy you."

"Why would he think he could use me against you if you mean absolutely _nothing_ to me?" As he said the words, his chest swelled wildly. Those words stung, even when he said them, a part of him regretted it.

Harry sluggishly stood up, wiping the back of his glove across his face to get rid of the blood. "Because, Ron, you still mean something to me." He turned his back and neared the edge of the roof. "I can't help you if Riddle ensnares you. All I can do is warn you against seeking him out."

"You have no right to tell me what I can do."

A small, bitter smile lifted the edges of Harry's mouth. "No, I gave up that right when I turned myself in as _Custos._ "

"No, you gave up that right as soon as you became a cold-blooded killer."

Harry turned his back entirely and stood there silently for a moment. "I've reached the point where I am not sorry for what I've done." He looked up into the sky, his features bathed eerily. "But I can say that I am sorry for hurting you and those closest to me. That is one regret I will always have."

Before Ron could snarl out a response, Harry jumped from the roof and Disapparated.

Ron pulled at his hair and paced the length of the roof. Harry had no right to come here, take advantage of the Weasley wards, and order him around. And to admit that he didn't feel sorry for what he'd done? How could Harry mutilate and kill people as if it were a sport? To say he wasn't sorry for any of that just made him an entirely different person in Ron's eyes.

He pivoted and abruptly Disapparated.

Setting his expression into one of fierce determination, he walked through the open gates and into the manor. He'd gone here before at night, but never before had he seen so many people present.

Some were familiar to him, others not so much. They lingered around the hallways, quietly talking in pairs or groups and watching him suspiciously. Ron tried not to let that bother him as he pressed forward. They did nothing to stop him or inquiry to his presence. It didn't look like there was an event going on, judging from the dim lighting and the solemn expressions on their faces.

Did something happen?

Ron frowned and entered _his_ office.

A younger man stood near Riddle's desk with his back turned to Ron. The room was dark, lit only by dying embers in the fireplace. No one else was in the room, so Ron tentatively approached the tall and lithe man who currently braced his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Excuse me," Ron addressed. "Do you know where I can find Minister Riddle?"

The dark-haired man slowly turned his head and gazed at Ron from over his shoulder. He had pale, ageless features, which were cut aristocratically and handsomely. What surprised Ron the most, however, were the crimson eyes directed narrowly onto him.

A slow, pleased smirk lifted the other man's lips the longer he observed Ron.

"Ronald Weasley," the man purred darkly. "What an unexpected surprise." He turned around and leaned against the back of the desk. Around him, other figures emerged slowly from the shadows, watching the pair closely. "Tell me, did Harry send you? Or is this just an occasion we can agree as amusingly ironic?"

Nervously, Ron looked around at the wizards who'd emerged out of nowhere. Riddle's manor was unnerving tonight. Perhaps enemy wizards took over the manor for themselves. But no. He stared at the wizard inclining lazily against the desk, immediately recognizing the dark, seductive aura. The features too. They were similar to Riddle's, and yet, he'd also remembered seeing them in textbooks—the face of a younger Tom Riddle.

"M-Minister?" he stuttered out, a loss for words.

Riddle continued to smile. "We'll agree to call it amusingly ironic, then." He pushed off from his desk and waved a lazy hand. "Leave us. Now. He is of no threat." At his order, the leering wizards exited the room without a moment's hesitation.

"Harry told me not to come," Ron blurted out once they left, his ears burning. "I don't know why, but I wanted to…

"To…" Riddle repeated with the same drawn out pause. "Defy him? Show him that he cannot control you?" Red eyes brightened unnaturally. "You wanted to hurt him, I assume, didn't you? Just like he hurt and betrayed you. That is entirely understandable, Ronald. Why listen to his warning if he is no longer the same Harry you remember?"

Ron stood there, feeling a sense of shame wash over him. He'd done something brash, he knew. The consequences of his actions were staring him right in the face. A manor full of Dark wizards and a Minister who was not who he said he was. The man's aura was cold tonight, as if he were upset. He'd also seemed distracted when Ron walked in, but as soon as he mentioned Harry, Riddle's attention sharpened.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ron straightened. "Harry mentioned he did something to hurt you, but I wanted you to know that I'm not him. I still want to learn the Dark Arts. I don't want to lose your mentorship."

And that was the truth.

Riddle had been his soundboard for a long while now. Though he was ashamed to admit it at times, Ron felt comfortable going to the man with his problems. Often times, the Minister was able to help him through issues or conflicts that arose, using either his influence or offering Ron a piece of his wisdom. When Harry warned him away from Riddle tonight, Ron didn't want to believe it.

Harry's selfishness had taken the Minister away from him, as well as a good friend.

"Let me see," Minister Riddle breathed as he stepped closer.

Ron swallowed, perplexed. "See?"

A pale hand grabbed Ron's chin and angled his eyes onto crimson ones. "Let me see Harry."

The stark possessiveness chilled Ron to the bone. Without any sort of warning, something entered his mind. Memories of tonight forcibly came to the surface and Ron relived it all. All the emotions, all the anger. He saw himself interact with Harry, but in a different light.

Certainly not how he remembered it.

Oddly enough, he was intensely aware of how attractive Harry was, how the moon played off his features in such a flattering way. Something hot and consuming curled in Ron's lower regions at just the sight of him. The way Harry moved, the way he spoke, everything emphasized.

It was less about how Ron felt and more of what Harry said and did.

Everything revolved around Harry. _Everything._

The influence left his mind, leaving an odd taint behind. Ron took a few steps back in order to gather his balance, staring wide-eyed at the Minister. "What did you do?"

"Legilimency."

Ron pressed his back against the wall and heaved a shaky breath. "What _are_ you?"

Riddle, on his way to his desk, offered Ron a distracted look over his shoulder. "A Dark Lord, silly child." He moved around his desk and sat down. "Harry was right. He displeased me greatly with his actions. By all means, I should skin you alive and hang you in the Atrium for him to see. For everyone to see."

There was nothing but absolute truth in that statement. Ron turned and ran for the door, his heart in his throat as Riddle's aura darkened considerably. Grabbing the handle, he yanked, but it did not open.

Oh Merlin, he was going to die.

A chilling laugh sounded from behind Ron. "You should have listened to him."

Ron slammed his palm against the door, leaning against it as his emotions went haywire. "I trusted you! I confined in you!" He ran his hands down his face, unable to believe everything falling at his feet. Riddle had meant so much to him. Just as Harry. "I thought we had some sort of… of…"

"Friendship?" Riddle finished for him, his tone mocking. "No, boy, my tolerance of you had everything to do with Harry. Learning more about Harry, taunting Harry, having something that belonged to Harry."

Silence stretched after the cruel statement and inactivity persisted.

Pressed against the door, Ron slowly turned around, spying Riddle simply watching him from behind his desk. The man had his fingers steepled and he gazed at Ron with boredom. Feeling belittled, yet still fearing for his life, Ron slowly turned around and watched Riddle warily.

"I can play this game with Harry as long as he wants," Riddle whispered more to himself than to Ron. "But when is anyone satisfied with an _eye for an eye_? I wrong Harry, Harry wronged me, and now I feel as if should counter once more by using you." He uncrossed his fingers and pointed at Ron. "The move is mine and he all but delivered you gift-wrapped."

He didn't understand what Riddle was speaking of, yet he was smart enough to remain tight-lipped.

"Though it is extremely fun to play with him, I'd rather have him by my side. The longer this continues, the further he gets from my reach." Riddle closed his eyes briefly, as if tired. "Let's start this over, shall we?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

Red eyes opened and immediately focused on Ron. It was the first time all night he truly saw just _Ron._

"I'd love to kill you." His voice was soft, cool and so very unemotional. "I'd love to hear your screams and see your skin and muscle tear away from your bone. More desirably, I'd capture your sister and let my men use her like a toy. I'd so _very much_ like to see her suffer. However, that would only serve Harry's purposes. Instead, I am going to stop the cycle and retrieve what is rightfully _mine_."

Before Ron could react to the man's comment, Riddle pointed is wand at him and he felt his mind go cold. His memories blurred and a wave of confusion made him extremely nauseated. As he blinked his eyes rapidly, and his senses cleared, he saw Riddle sitting behind his desk with his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"Mr. Weasley?" he inquired. "Are you well?"

"I…" Ron trailed off and scratched his head. There was a funny feeling in his chest, as if he'd just heard news he didn't want to hear. "I don't…" What had he been saying? Where did the other wizards go? He'd remembered they were in Riddle's office earlier.

"You wanted to speak to me about Harry," Riddle stated slowly, frowning with concern. "I just reassured you that I would still teach you Dark Arts and that our relationship would not suffer for what Harry has done." He waved a hand. "Are you alright, Ronald?"

Ron nodded, flushing. He felt like an idiot. He'd let his anger take a hold of his actions. After Harry warned him away from Riddle, he did the exact opposite. At the time, all he could think about was that _Custos_ had taken his best friend away from him and Minister Riddle's guidance.

Fortunately, Minister Riddle seemed unaffected by whatever Harry had done.

Ron didn't know how he'd react if the Minister no longer wanted to interact with him.

"There is just one thing I ask _from you_ before we begin the Dark Arts." Riddle curled a hand underneath his chin and regarded Ron closely from across the room. "Bring me Harry. He and I need to talk." He suddenly straightened and motioned to the door. "If that is all, Mr. Weasley, I am quite busy. I wish you a good night."

Still feeling clouded and confused, Ron turned and reached for the handle, experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. "Ah, Minister Riddle, sir?" He glanced at Riddle from over his shoulder. "Why do you look so, er, different?"

_Younger._

Without looking up from his papers, Riddle responded in a detached tone. "The Dark Arts do not simply give you power, but eternal youth. However, that is a story for another night, Ronald."

Clearly sensing the Minister's distraction, Ron exited the room in a hurry. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to piece together all these emotions. Was he an idiot for coming here after Harry warned him? Maybe, but it was for his own piece of mind.

Harry couldn't take everything away from him.

Still, he felt unsettled, as if things weren't as they should be. Moreover, he remembered what he said to Harry on the roof at home. The things he'd said were harsh, cruel. A large part of him did not regret saying those things, but the more he pondered over it, the more he realized he could have taken a better approach.

Harry had hurt him, betrayed him, but surely, he had his own side of the story to tell.

It was just too overwhelming for him right now.

**. . Dreams. .**

Voldemort hadn't touched Ron.

Harry sat at the edge of the hole, his legs dangling down to the underground prison. Voldemort's Inner Circle currently occupied the prison, but he had intentions to destroy _all_ of them tonight. He tossed a vial in the air and caught it lazily, staring into the black abyss beneath him.

Visiting Ron the other night had been a tricky move across the chessboard.

Not only did he want to apologize to the boy—his best mate—but he also wanted to warn him away from Tom Riddle. He knew Ron had stars in his eyes for the man, only holding the Minister in the highest of regards, but the boy was completely an utterly oblivious to Riddle's true nature. A part of that was Harry's fault, he supposed. He should have warned Ron sooner.

On the other hand, he knew Ron. He knew the boy would probably do the exact opposite of what he'd asked.

And he had.

Ron had gone to Riddle's manor last night immediately after Harry's warning. Harry anticipated Riddle would see Ron as means of revenge for Bellatrix. The Dark Lord would no doubt kill Ron, torture him, or even hold him captive. Oddly enough, he did nothing of the sort, but rather sent Ron on his way. Was it cold of Harry to imagine his friend's imminent death?

He supposed it was very cold.

Clutching the vial, he threw it in the air and caught it once more. Ron would have visited Riddle whether or not Harry said anything. Harry thought he'd warn him at least. Besides camping outside the Weasley residence, a verbal warning was his only way of protecting Ron. Unfortunately, it had only encouraged his friend into visiting the most powerful Dark Lord the Wizarding world had ever seen.

What disappointed Harry the most was Riddle's _inactivity_. Again! Loathe as he was to admit it, he was slightly insulted Ron walked away from Voldemort. Aside from killing Kestrel, Wells, and Gibbons, Voldemort hadn't moved any more pieces across the board. He'd moved the Muggle-born infants and killed off the followers who talked to the Aurors, but after he discovered Bellatrix, Voldemort was silent.

Had Bellatrix's death angered Riddle? So much so that he was shaken to his core?

Perhaps not so much to that extreme, but it had affected the Dark Lord, Harry knew that much. Earlier in their partnership, Voldemort explicitly expressed that Harry had to leave his Inner Circle alone, especially Bellatrix. Wanting to hurt the Dark Lord as much as possible, Harry decided Bellatrix would be his first act of revenge.

He'd expected Riddle to counter, perhaps go after the Weasleys or Hermione.

However, Riddle just wasn't _moving._

"If you kill them, you'll be going down a path you will never recover from." A dramatic sigh. "Though, you have committed many acts recently that have me questioning your frame of mind. You're rather dark and broody lately. I don't think black is really your color, by the way. Perhaps try a darker grey. Maybe a charcoal."

Harry clutched his vial and turned to look at William Stratton. "You have a habit of showing up in places you aren't welcome." His eyes took in the springy and athletic figure standing a good distance away. "What are you doing here? Besides trying to act like the psychologist you clearly are not?"

He didn't know what he should do with Stratton. On one hand, the man claimed he'd tried to save James and Lily Potter. On the other hand, the man was bloody insane. He was elusive, and he was just odd. He knew things he shouldn't know, or more specifically, that he shouldn't keep from Harry.

Stratton was something else. As in _something_ else. A Seer? A creature? A possessed mind? Something of the sort.

"I'm concerned about you. You've refocused your single-minded obsession from catching your parents' murder to playing a dangerous game with Tom Riddle. By the way, darling, he isn't playing." Stratton adjusted his dark glasses. "Can you imagine why that is?"

Harry's lips thinned and he looked away from the man. Heaviness settled in his chest and it continued to suffocate him. It was hard to remove himself from the game. He'd been so engrossed, so obsessed, he had little time to truly look at things from an outside prospective.

"I daresay Tom Marvolo Riddle fancies you very much." Stratton clicked his tongue. "And you fancy him. If you know him at all, it should surprise you that he has practiced such restraint by not engaging in a silly battle with you."

"He's responsible for my—"

"Lily was responsible for her own death and the death of her husband." A pause. "And for the irreversible scarring it caused her son."

Looking down at the vial, Harry contemplated throwing it at Stratton. It would kill the man instantly.

"You've acted without receiving all the facts, Harry, which is so unlike you. You're quick to label Riddle as your enemy when he could be your solid supporter. Tom Riddle is not blameless, but there is a much larger enemy out there than you think. Once you realize this, you'll see your feud with Riddle as trivial."

Stratton suddenly crouched down behind Harry and attempted to take the vial. Harry was quicker, though, and moved it away from his reach. He turned his head, nearly brushing noses with Stratton.

"If anyone is to blame for me seeing Riddle as my enemy, it's _you_." Harry lifted his lip. "You told me he was Lord Voldemort, the very same man who funded my mother's group."

" _Funded_." Stratton lifted his brows from behind his dark sunglasses. "Not killed… not directly, at least."

Harry released a slow breath as Stratton stood up and retreated.

"I didn't come here to tell you what a good match you and Riddle would make, how much you two complement each other, or how surprising it is that Riddle actually _admires_ someone…" He threw a smile over his shoulder, as if sensing Harry's deepening sneer. "I came here to tell you that if you think Riddle should die, he will be assassinated tomorrow during an attack at the Ministry. If you want to prevent that killing, however, I would suggest arming yourself with Muggle weapons."

"Riddle can take care of himself."

"Too true in most cases. In this case, however, he is quite literally _powerless._ "

Harry stood up. "What exactly do you know, Stratton? Who the hell _are_ you?"

His fingers restlessly played with the vial. Should he? Stratton knew so much, yet he didn't appear to be an enemy, at least not yet. Killing him instantly probably wasn't the best route to take. And yet, something else held him back, a type of sentimental hold—as loathe as he was to admit it.

Stratton smiled sweetly. "I? I am your protector. Just as you and Riddle are each other's protector."

He clapped his hands dramatically and disappeared from sight. Harry contemplated the empty space, his fingers refusing to relax their grip on the explosive potion. He was Riddle's protector now, eh? He had absolutely no urge to run off and save Riddle form his imminent doom. The Dark Lord had an abundance of power. He could take care of himself.

Still, he wondered at Stratton's words. Why would he claim Harry was Riddle's protector and vice versa? It seemed ludicrous, especially now that they wanted to destroy each other.

But did they?

" _You've refocused your single-minded obsession from catching your parents' murder to playing a dangerous game with Tom Riddle. By the way, darling, he isn't playing. I daresay Tom Marvolo Riddle fancies you very much."_

Harry looked down at the explosive potion. In a rare act of uncontrollable rage, he roared and threw the vial across the grassy meadow. The potion vial gleamed, catching sight of the bright, harsh sun, before landing in the distance. Upon impact, a large explosion erupted, shaking the ground and causing earth to upturn.

He stood amongst the cloud of dust, holding his breath and closing his eyes. At his sides, his hands turned sideways, feeling the small dirt particles hit his skin.

A Dark Lord _fancied_ him.

How utterly ridiculous… yet another side of him preened at the very idea. Riddle was, above all else, a worthy opponent, and a very ideal partner. Was Riddle's obsession with Harry the reason he refused to play further? Did he hold some sort of morality within that black soul of his?

It must have been his mother's doing. Somehow, like Harry, Riddle possessed his own moral code. In the Dark Lord's twisted mind, he wanted Harry, and in order for that to happen, he knew there were boundaries he couldn't cross in the game of reciprocation.

Yet, Riddle _did_ have a black soul. Just because Harry couldn't detect the man's taint past his strong Occlumency barriers, he knew he'd be overwhelmed with the man's very presence. The past few days revealed many of Riddle's—Voldemort's—wrongdoings. If it had been anyone else, it was proof enough to kill the man.

 _Custos_ would have.

Instead, Harry just wanted to fuck with the man, to toy around and anger him. What did that _mean_ , though?

Green eyes slowly opened to the dust cloud.

By all means, he should kill Voldemort. He should kill the man's Inner Circle. The Dark Lord had a direct hand in the death of his parents, he was tainted, corrupt, and had future plans that would twist the Wizarding world upside down. However, now that Harry had a taste of what life could be like with the man, he didn't want to lose that just yet.

The man excited him. Frustrated him. And he _knew_ Harry so intimately, that he encouraged him to thrive and be himself. But that was Riddle, wasn't it? The master manipulator who knew how to make people feel as if they were on his private and prized pedestal.

How bloody pathetic was that?

Maybe it was best to let the attack happen tomorrow. It wouldn't be done by his hand, but Riddle would disappear, he would stop being such a distraction and a constant presence in his mind.

**. . & Darkness. .**

"Riddle's manor is crawling with wizards and witches, sir," Auror Grey whispered. "Wilson and I scoped out the place. It's heavily warded with intricate spells that recognize someone as they approach. Either it lets you in or it doesn't. We've identified many, but in particular, Ron Weasley was seen entering and exiting the premises."

Kingsley sighed at the very mention of Arthur's youngest son. He'd had his suspicions of course; he just hadn't wanted to believe it. "He's friends with Harry. As far as we know, Harry and Riddle are currently at odds with each other. Has Mr. Weasley just picked his side?"

"Or maybe he doesn't know Tom Riddle is a rising Dark Lord. Like the rest of the Wizarding world."

"That is to say _if_ he actually is a Dark Lord," Sanders muttered from the corner of his mouth. "Minister Riddle is an upstanding wizard. He's been a Hogwarts professor and a prominent politician for decades. Why haven't we gotten even a sniff of any wrongdoings? Any cult-like activity? Policies in the Ministry has stayed the same—"

"Exactly," Grey interrupted. "Policies have stayed the same. Archaic and outdated. Riddle is supposed to be ingenious and modern. Isn't it a bit suspicious that things haven't progressed under his run?"

"What are you suggesting?" Sanders pressed.

"He's gathering as much support as possible before acting," Kingsley answered firmly. "He's powerful and powerful people flock to their own kind. He's had the opportunity to influence many generations. Can you _imagine_ how many people he could sway in those decades?"

Silence met his statement. Kingsley looked at the twelve individual Aurors he pulled aside, Aurors he could trust. Their expressions were all grim as they absorbed the news.

Kingsley believed they should be far more solemn than that. _Custos_ left them nothing to act on in reference to what Riddle had planned. If the man was—no—when the Dark Lord chose to act, Kingsley had a sinking suspicion that they would be outnumbered.

The names coming out were alarming. Most of the identities they obtained was from observing Riddle's manor during the evening. Unfortunately, they couldn't _arrest_ any of those men and women, simply because they did not have a basis. The Wizengamot wouldn't even consider listening if Kingsley brought these men and women into the Ministry based on suspicions that they supported their Minister-turned-Dark Lord.

On the other hand, the followers they could question, and therefore sentence, were all missing. Severus Snape was the sole individual available for confinement. He was currently in a holding cell, awaiting his trial. They'd found more than enough evidence of his involvement with illegal potions to send him to Azkaban.

"Maybe it might not be such a bad thing," Sanders suddenly exclaimed. "Maybe Riddle might actually have some good ideas. Why fight it until we know what he stands for?"

"Do you honestly believe, if he practiced decades of clandestineness, that he would make changes the public would support?" Another Auror growled out. "He's kidnapped Muggle-born _infants,_ for Merlin's sake!"

"The fact Tom Riddle is responsible for all those kidnapped Muggle-born children is still an assumption," Kingsley cut in calmly. "We have no _proof_ that Riddle has done _anything_ besides garnering the unyielding loyalty of many families. We cannot do anything legally."

His words finally set in.

They could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. As such cases with Dark Lords. Or Light Lords. They were too powerful and they were essentially immune to laws if they chose to act radically.

"The Wizengamot is trying to handle Madame Lane's situation as quietly as possible." Kingsley sat on the edge of the table and looked at each man and woman. "However, due to the _inconvenient_ time of Kestrel's appearance and confession, the press took complete control."

He looked down and grabbed a newspaper. _The Prophet._ Throwing it in the middle of the table, he made his point. He didn't have to read what it said, he knew all his Aurors had read it. The public praised _Custos_ again for his heroic deeds, his grey vigilantism. The integrity of the Ministry was in question; moreover, the Wizengamot and their previous rulings were under scrutiny.

The Head of the Wizengamot, Madame Lane, was facing harsh punishment for her wrongdoings. Her husband had admitted to everything and the evidence was alarming. Though Kestrel was murdered, that did not stop the investigation, nor the cry of outrage.

Neither did finding Barty Crouch in _Custos'_ holding cell. _Imperious_ was the sole reason for his cooperation in the serial killer's escape, however, now the public knew of his son's involvement with _Custos_ and his willingness to cast Unforgiveables. Currently, Barty Crouch's reputation was also being questioned.

It was a mess. Many rulings and trials were put on hold until the Wizengamot figured out a way to put order in their courts.

"Potter's main objective in revealing Kestrel Lane was to halt any court actions against _him_ and to buy himself time," Auror Grey insisted fiercely. "He said as much to you, sir." She nodded her chin in Kingsley's direction. "But it was also to create chaos and shine a spotlight on all the corrupt men and women in the Ministry. It makes me wonder how many more are out there."

"I don't think we need to focus on the Wizengamot," Wilson argued. "Let them take care of their corrupt members. _We,_ as Aurors and the police task of the Wizarding world,need to focus on the imminent threat of Minister Riddle. A rising Dark Lord. _If_ a war happens, which _Custos_ has subtly hinted at, we should build our defense. If we cannot do anything legally, we need to think about establishing a line of resistance."

The atmosphere in the room dimmed more so, yet Auror Grey curled her fists stubbornly.

She lifted her chin, meeting Kingsley's eyes. "It will be a war, won't it, sir? Like Grindelwald."

Kingsley stared at her without seeing her. In his mind, he played out a conversation he had with Potter.

" _The unfortunate thing is that he has grown and festered so completely, his roots are imbedded in Britain's very soil. If you cut down the tree, it will grow back quite viciously. He's been planning this for decades. There is no stopping him."_

" _Then what do you suggest?"_

" _Run."_

Kingsley turned away from his Aurors and contemplated the far wall. Potter had his own motives, most certainly. Though it was unquestionable that he had a moral code Kingsley could respect. A part of him trusted Potter, could rely and act on his word instantly with only a _slight_ hesitation, but it always turned out for the best.

Potter told him to run. If Kingsley heeded the warning and ran, he could save himself. He could save his wife, who had yet to wake from her magical coma. He could save all these men and women in this room.

"You all have a choice. A decision." Kingsley inhaled deeply, filling up his lungs and turning back to his men. "You were hired to take down men and women who abused their magical rights in this society. To arrest those who were corrupt and made poor decisions.

"There is no concrete evidence that Minister Riddle is a Dark Lord or that he will act against Britain's best interests. There is nothing of the sort I can present to you as proof. However, if what I believe will come to fruition, I am asking you to go against the Ministry, to go against your Minster for Magic, and putting your life, along with your family's life, on the line. I will understand completely if you decide to go against this decision."

At his words, the Aurors sat in silence, staring at Kingsley and a few looking around at the others. Kingsley watched them, determined to tell them the utmost truth. If they were going to put their life on the line, they deserved that much.

He'd thought long and hard about this at his wife's bedside. If things were as bad as he believed them to be, he was willing to lead a resistance. Albus Dumbledore was inspiration enough, a good example to follow. Though Kingsley could never replicate the man's power, he could follow the man's morals and his wisdom.

"I think its best, then, that we start recruiting," Auror Priest cut the silence. "Start programs through the Auror Department for the younger generations—"

"All well and good, Priest, but I don' think time will allow us that luxury," Grey informed quietly. She looked to Kingsley. "We all know people, good people, who would support a resistance against a Dark Lord. Alastor, the Weasleys, the Prewetts, for example. They are good fighters and Light supporters."

Kingsley rubbed his forehead. "Good."

"We can't trust people based on their allegiance to Light magic," an Auror quickly interrupted. "Just because they are of Light descendent, doesn't mean they will be loyal to our cause. Just look at the Weasley boy."

"Of course, we will always run into the possibility of betrayal, which is why we need to organize a panel of our most trusted supporters. This panel—this order—will be the ones making decisions and planning lines of defense."

"Like generals?"

"Like generals," Kingsley affirmed. "Now, I don't want mass panic, especially as Voldemort has yet to make a move, but I want you all to keep a look out for possible allies. Keep things quiet. Calm. If we are going to build a resistance, we need to have order."

He wanted to emphasize that. If all this turned out to be an intricate ruse of _Custos',_ Kingsley would look like a fool. What they were doing was already radical and surreal. To have a Dark Lord in their very midst… he had never considered facing one before, fighting against one, but the signs were all there.

A Dark Lord was rising.

Kingsley believed his men felt the atmosphere shift just as well. This was not fun and games. This was not about catching a serial killer who left one or two bodies in his wake. This was on an entirely different scale. A Dark Lord did not simply strut around and hold that title just for the hell of it.

A Dark Lord would make changes, perhaps even destructive and lethal changes on a mass level. Kingsley had no way of knowing what Riddle stood for or what he had planned.

"We can try to quietly contact other Ministries outside Britain," Wilson murmured. He raised his eyebrows and looked around at his colleagues. They seemed to perk up at the mention of outside allies. "They may not help, as this could be unique to our country and they won't want to extend their resources."

Kingsley pressed his hands together and splayed them against his mouth in deep consideration. "That may just work. I have a few contacts in other Ministries. If we tread carefully, we may garner support from them." He straightened. "We need a base, somewhere we can meet secretly instead of here—"

Suddenly, the lights shut off and everything turned pitch black.

"Not again!"

" _Custos_?"

"Highly doubtful," Kingsley said, standing up.

The backup lights turned on, but they buzzed and crinkled loudly. He considered the dim lighting, realizing with surprise that they were running on Muggle electricity, not magic. That was odd and deeply discerning. If the magic around the Ministry shut down, that meant things wouldn't work properly.

Installation of the Muggle backup generators were the last line of defense. Therefore, when creating the Muggle generators, the Ministry only installed enough for lighting and air exchangers to regulate airflow in the underground levels. Lifts wouldn't work, therefore, everyone on level three and below were trapped underground until magic resumed.

Fortunately, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was on second level and had access to a set of stairs leading to the Atrium. The first level, which housed the Minister for Magic and support staff, were just as fortunate.

However, Kingsley realized that Floo Networks would be down. He was not aware of an alternate way to get above ground. But the most _important_ thing was _how_ the magic—

"How can the magic possibly go out?" an Auror blurted out. "Is- is- is this Voldemort? Did he absorb the magic?!"

"Silence!" Kingsley roared, sensing the panic amongst his men. They could talk big, they could plan, and yet, that did not prepare them for reality. They were used to battle, they were trained for battle, yet somehow, the mere thought of fighting a Dark Lord affected them mentally. It made things different.

"I hardly think it's Voldemort. This is _his_ territory."

Kingsley moved towards the door, hearing the loud murmuring coming from the Aurors on the other side. Opening the door, he watched as they held up their wands, loudly exclaiming. He observed as a few of them tried to cast spells, but nothing but static and sparks emitted from their wands.

Impossible.

He'd never seen something like that before.

Hesitantly, Kingsley tried casting a simple Tickling Charm. The spell evaporated the moment it escaped from his wand. It was as if the exposed air literally _slurped_ the magic, leaving behind nothing but static and sparks.

"There are intruders in the Atrium! There are bloody freaks in masks in the Atrium! They have people held hostage and are demanding Minister Riddle!"

Kingsley stared at the chaos, feeling his own pulse race. He was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He needed to take this situation into his own hands. Innocent people visited the Ministry daily, sometimes families. They would find themselves trapped in the Atrium, unable to perform magic.

He abruptly threw down the glass display board where they hung evidence and photographs. It shattered loudly, causing heads to swerve in his direction.

"You will _silence_!" Kingsley yelled, instantly quieting the room with his booming voice. "I want my Aurors and Hit Wizards, who are cleared for battle, to follow me to the Atrium. We cannot use magic, but we were trained in combat. The priority is the safety of the citizens."

_And the Minister._

It was what he would have said, had he been ignorant to Tom Riddle's true identity.

Instead, he tore his way through his men, setting an example. The field Aurors and Hit Wizards quickly followed, still clutching their wands. Kingsley saw this and his mouth thinned. It was _Custos_ all over again. Wizards relied too heavily on wands, which was why the Aurors and Hit Wizards went through physical combat training.

However, as soon as they become full-fledged soldiers, they relied instantly on their wands and forgot their physical training. It was second nature for them, just as it was for any other witch or wizard.

With the exception of Harry Potter, of course.

Kingsley ran up the staircase, lit only by a dim light. Sprinting through the corridors of first level, he spied a few administration staff flail around uselessly. Once they spied the Aurors and Hit Wizards inch slowly up to the Atrium, they seemed relieved.

He avoided them entirely. They were not his focus right now. The focus was on _them._

As he entered the side entrance to the Atrium, he saw a group of citizens all huddled in a group in the center of the lobby. They sat together, hunching and raising their hands to the men around them. Kingsley narrowed his eyes on the purple robes and the white, porcelain masks. The masks displayed no decorative features, just two eye sockets and an eerily void of identity.

Their robes, however, had a gold symbol on their backs. It was a circle inside a triangle with a line dissecting down the middle of the shape. His eyes dilated at the familiar symbol.

Gellert Grindelwald.

_For the greater good._

It was impossible. Dumbledore defeated him.

However, he hadn't kill him, had he?

"Do not approach any closer!" one of the masked men ordered near the group of civilians. He raised a wand threateningly. "Or we will kill them!"

Kingsley called their bluff. No one's wand worked properly. Only, as he took another step, one of the masked men pointed their wand at a woman and abruptly fired a green curse. She slumped instantly, her body a solid weight as she dropped dead to the floor.

Screams erupted and the civilians all pressed together, waving their hands madly. Kingsley dropped his own useless wand and put his hands in the air in a placating gesture. His sudden stop caused his men to freeze behind him. No order was needed.

"Fine," Kingsley consented calmly. "We will not come any closer."

He looked to the side, noticing a great deal of administration staff members in the Atrium, standing motionlessly at their enemy's wand. Kingsley immediately spied Minister Riddle standing just a few feet in front of him. He was isolated from the rest, as if he'd volunteered and sacrificed himself per their enemy's demands.

Suddenly, a large explosion sounded behind Kingsley. He turned, falling to the ground from the force of it. When the dust settled, he looked over at the staircase, noticing rubble now barricading the entrance. Not all the Hit Wizards and Aurors had made it to the Atrium just yet.

They were trapped behind the wall— or dead.

Kingsley breathed deeply, evenly, trying to push past his emotions and focus on the battle. There were nearly four dozen enemies and two dozen Aurors. More importantly, the enemies had weapons that worked and they had hostages. It would be impossible to gather more backup now that the staircase was inaccessible.

"Minister Riddle," Kingsley tried quietly.

"Silence, Shacklebolt, and do as you're told," Riddle countered darkly.

Kingsley stood up, just a few feet from the Minister-turned-Dark Lord. The situation was gloom; he knew when to admit that much. His mind raced with possibilities.

"We want nothing but your Minister's head… and perhaps control of the Ministry thereafter." The masked man in charge had two single lines down his masked cheeks. He was taller than the rest, seemingly more impressive physically. He, like all the others, also had a blade attached to his waist.

There was another figure dressed in all black, standing aside and near the leader of the group. This man was pale and he wore no mask. He had long black hair tied up into a pony, bringing attention to his sharp features and unique, yellow eyes. The pupils were split, clearly asserting that he was not human. A long sword strapped to his back and he assessed the scene emotionlessly.

Swords. Wands. Masks. Creatures. Grindelwald. Already a death count.

Kingsley felt as if he'd stepped into a completely different world. His eyes landed on the dead woman, feeling himself mourn her loss. For the loss of the men behind him who'd been caught in the explosion.

If it were only Minister Riddle's death they were after, Kingsley would not put up a fight. However, he knew they had intentions of taking over the Ministry for themselves. Whomever they were. They seemed rather competent already, having hijacked the Ministry's magic by using both Muggle and magical means.

He didn't know how they'd accomplished what they had, but he did know one thing. Minister Riddle was the only chance they had of keeping their Ministry.

The man in charge raised his blade and pointed it at Riddle. "Kill him."

Before a group of masked enemies approached, a chilling laugh sounded throughout the Ministry's Atrium. It echoed across the wide expansion, reaching all the ears present. Kingsley had a feeling he knew the source of the laugh; he just could not believe it. Nor did he know what to think of it.

"Grindelwald's men relying on Muggle weaponry?" A voice crooned from the shadows. "How utterly ironic is that?"

Across the Atrium, twelve individuals emerged from the shadows. These figures had black hooded cloaks and skull masks hiding their identities. Kingsley squeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to see this, unwilling to believe this. There were two of them. Two groups. Grindelwald and who? _Custos_? It was his voice, surely, but Potter did not strike him as a man willing to lead a group of masked wizards.

"Perhaps just as ironic as Lord Voldemort's followers wielding Muggle weaponry, I suppose."

Kingsley immediately spied the blades the black-clad wizards clutched in their hands.

"Harry Potter, is it?" The masked man called, seemingly amused. He had a thick, German accent. "They warned me you may be a problem. After all, foul Muggle play is your specialty, is it not? But just how much damage can you possibly inflict with some shiny weapons?"

Silence stretched.

Suddenly, something, or _somethings_ , soared through the air. Kingsley witnessed the gleam of silver catching the dim lighting across the Atrium, but he could not track them completely. Next thing he knew, four of the masked men guarding the civilians all went down heavily, small blades embedded into their necks.

And then chaos began.


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; Horrible grammar, death, and a very, very explicit lemon. I mean, very explicit. Definitely no lovemaking here… *feels dirty*. Yes, that’s right. Twenty-eight chapters later and we get that delicious lemon.
> 
> Moreover, many things will be unaddressed this chapter. Questions will persist and people will wonder what the /heck/ happened. Have no fear, next chapter is all about revelations and explanations. Also, I haven’t forgotten about Sirius, or rather, Harry hasn’t forgotten about Sirius. He will mourn properly, I promise. He’s just been a bit… err… busy lately.
> 
> Enjoy.

  1. **Chapter Twenty-Eight**



“ _Fucking_ wicked!”

Behind Kingsley, an Auror swore loudly as four masked men crumpled to the ground in rapid succession. Kingsley had to share his Auror’s sentiments. Completely and utterly naïve to the wickedness of swordplay, Kingsley could only stare in unreserved fascination.

Potter really was a master.

The knives had come so fast, so unexpectedly, Kingsley’s mind hadn’t caught up to the situation until the third man went down. He hadn’t thought Muggle weapons could be so lethal and effective. He supposed it depended on the man or woman wielding them, however, and Potter clearly demonstrated he was a force to be reckoned with.

Grindelwald’s men—at least that’s what Kingsley would call them—seemed to take just as long to adjust to the added threat. Yet, the solitary man—or creature— bent down and dislodged a throwing knife from the neck of the enemy. He flipped it expertly in his palm before throwing it cleanly across the Atrium.

All eyes turned, watching as the knife cut through the air. A vague, dark shape moved away from the oncoming projectile before ducking back into the shadows. Kingsley watched, waiting, wondering what Potter thought he was doing. It wasn’t as if he weren’t grateful for the added assistance, yet he couldn’t help but to wonder _whom_ Potter came here to protect.

More importantly, why he was leading around Voldemort’s army.

He looked at Riddle, observing the man’s eyes honed obsessively towards Potter’s last known location. No scorn was evident, no hatred, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Kill him!” The leader ordered again, pointing at Riddle.

Kingsley immediately noticed Grindelwald’s men did not raise their wands, but instead, draw their weapons. He also noticed the leader stayed back, standing next to the tall, creature-like man who seemed proficient in Muggle weaponry. A group of wizards in purple robes regrouped around the hostages while at least ten men ran at the Minister for Magic.

Suddenly, a body tumbled from the catwalk above.

A lithe figure hit the ground lightly after executing a flip. Kingsley would identify the young man anywhere. In his hand, he held a long dagger, not quite a sword. He stood tall in front of Minister Riddle, as if actually _protecting_ the man he wanted to bring down just days ago.

“Their wands are fake, Shacklebolt,” Potter informed calmly from over his shoulder. He didn’t seem all too concerned with the men racing towards him. “There is a rune somewhere in the Atrium that absorbs magic. They cannot be immune to its effects.”

Kingsley shared a look with a few of his men and nodded.

The Aurors and Hit Wizards in the back slowly and subtly spread out to look for said rune. With Potter’s sudden entrance with twelve others, Grindelwald’s men were losing the upper hand. They still outnumbered the Aurors, but too many distractions split their attention.  

Potter hardly gave Minister Riddle a second look as he swung his dagger and abruptly beheaded the first masked enemy to approach. Kingsley stared wide-eyed, watching as the head rolled across the Atrium’s ground before Riddle abruptly stopped it with the toe of his boot.

The Minister stood tall and unconcerned as the mass of wizards rushed to end his life.

It was if he were confident in Potter’s abilities, as if he _trusted_ Potter.

Kingsley did not fault the man for believing such a thing, for Potter was incredible in the way he moved. His movements were so quick and fluid, he made time slow down. He ducked, he twirled, and he danced his way through the mass of wizards so efficiently, it was laughable. His blade jabbed in places Kingsley could not keep track of, though they must have been vital organs, for the next second, Potter’s enemy dropped cripplingly to the ground. 

Potter took a hold of his enemy’s hood and wrapped it around his neck.

Abruptly, he twisted, snapping the neck instantly and going to the next opponent.

A few tried to fire a green curse from their wands without uttering an incantation. It couldn’t have been magic. It had to be some kind of defense used simultaneously with the rune. Perhaps the female civilian they demonstrated with earlier wasn’t even dead, but knocked unconscious.

The green ‘spells’ sizzled at Potter’s feet, their aim knocked off balance from a well-aimed kick or nudge. Kingsley watched closely, noticing a green light escape their wands after an excessive _flick._ Only, it didn’t work for a few men. As they discarded their wand to grab their blade, Potter already had them on the ground.

Kingsley should feel remorse or something along the lines of disapproval at their abrupt murders.

However, he couldn’t muster up any such emotion.

 _One,_ just one wizard lunged past Potter and leaped for Riddle. As Potter turned to throw his dagger at the wizard’s turned back, no doubt anticipating an easy kill, something beat him to it.

A brightly colored serpent shot out from around Riddle’s neck and coiled around the purple-robed man. Fangs sunk into the exposed neck and the man went down hard. His body started to convulse and foamy saliva seeped out from underneath the porcelain mask.

Kingsley took a step back, eyeing Riddle warily.

Just a few feet away, Potter’s green eyes brightened as he considered the serpent. A wary grin lifted his lips. “What else do you have hiding underneath those robes, Minister?”

Without waiting for a reply, _Custos_ turned back to the last man standing opposite of him. The poor man knew he faced death, yet he clutched his small blade and pointed it dauntingly at Harry. Only, it didn’t cause _Custos_ to take defense. Surprisingly enough, a pleased laugh sounded from Potter as he stood opposite the man.

“Wizards who don’t know how to properly handle blades are like floundering virgins who don’t know what to do with their cocks,” Potter mocked softly, twirling his dagger and pointing it away from the masked man. “It’s endearing. Let me show you a thing or two, _sweetheart_.”

The man charged with an enraged scream.

Potter all but glided on the toes of his boots, spinning around the thrusting blade before coming up behind the man. As his gloved hands grabbed his enemy’s wrist, the same wrist that held the blade, his bright, unnerving green eyes met Riddle’s from over his enemy’s shoulder.

“Don’t, Potter!” Kingsley roared, suddenly upset over Potter’s method of execution.

Hardly flinching at Kingsley’s order, Potter continued to watch Riddle as he manipulated the man’s wrist, causing his enemy to slit his own throat. Blood sprayed and _Custos_ deposited the body to the ground where the others had fallen.

Kingsley shook his head, watching as the two Alpha men regarded the other intently. It was if he, along with all the others in the Atrium, were uninvited observers, not privy to the game Riddle and Potter played. It was a pissing match, a game of dominance and control.  

Potter was exerting his superiority. All but preening and displaying his feathers for Riddle’s sweet enjoyment. And Riddle enjoyed the show, that much was evident from his penetrating stare. The Minister held out an arm, allowing the serpent to coil its way up his wrist and rest on the palm of his hand.

Low, yet urgent hissing sounded from Minister Riddle’s mouth, yet he kept his eyes on Potter.

Auror Grey pressed against Kingsley, sensing the same, unnerving game between the two wizards. Kingsley wondered if she felt just as played as he. He didn’t have time to dwell over the fact, for the leader of Grindelwald’s army reinforced his troops around the group of civilians. He stalked to perimeter of his men, watching Potter’s turned back. Though over a dozen of his men were dead at Potter’s hand, he still outnumbered the Aurors.

Kingsley straightened his shoulders at the sudden standstill on both ends. Voldemort’s army—or Potter’s army— inched closer to the group of Grindelwald’s men, but they had yet to act. Kingsley’s own Aurors and Hit Wizards were immobile, save for the few who’d climbed to the catwalk and rafters and were scouting for the rune.

It was silent, still, disturbed only by a set of clapping hands resonating across the Atrium.

“Marvelous job, Potter.”

Potter slowly turned his attention away from Riddle to assess the new threat. Kingsley stared at the lithe and springy body of the serial killer, noticing the tight ropes of muscle and more importantly, the odd rune-like marking etched into his forearm. He’d seen it before. For the life of him, he couldn’t discern if it was a simple tattoo or something significant.

“I heard you like to play a little something called, ‘ _an eye for an eye’._ ”

Abruptly turning toward the leader of the group, Kingsley sensed the shift of energy. He inclined his head and held up a curled fist. If what he’d seen was accurate, their wands were not truly functional. If that was the case, Kingsley and his men would use brute force to subdue their enemy if need be.

There were going to be casualties whether they attacked or remained motionless. There was no honor letting a serial killer fight their battle for them. They would use Potter, just as Potter used them. They’d accept his help, but as soon as this was over, he was going back in custody.

He noticed Potter’s tensing shoulders and knew it would be any minute now.

**. . Dreams. .**

Harry didn’t know whether to take the man seriously or not. The way he arrogantly roamed around the perimeter of the hostages, yet maintained close contact with the half-demon was especially telling. The man was afraid of Harry, and rightfully so. After all, the man had initiated a dangerous game.

Taking away magic not only made his enemies weak, but it also made him vulnerable.

And yet, while Regbo’s man was susceptible, he still liked control. He was a sadist who enjoyed destruction. Harry knew the exact moment when he turned his attention on the hostages as means to reestablish his control. “Do not!” Harry ordered firmly, lifting his hand and reaching it towards the man.

His gloved fingers curled in on themselves when the man laughed cruelly.

“I think… thirteen need to be eliminated and then we can talk negotiations. Our Lord is very interested in you, Potter. Perhaps you may have something to offer.” 

Harry reached out with his Empathy. His anger and his desire to harm all of Regbo’s men made his veins burn hotly. He used it as fuel to manipulate Voldemort’s army, directing a strong wave of fury and bloodthirsty vengeance in their direction. As soon as Regbo’s man gave the order for his men to execute the hostages, Harry dropped his arm.

_“Go!”_

As if invisible chains fell away, Voldemort’s Inner Circle charged obediently. Coupled with Harry’s continued use of Empathy and the mind-altering potion he’d fed them, it was not hard to make them loyal to him, at least for a few hours. Not only did it give Harry more manpower, but it would be a nice mockery to Riddle. If things worked out properly in the end, Kingsley would also have full custody of all the members.

  _See me, Riddle._

Unsurprisingly, as soon as Voldemort’s Inner Circle charged, Kingsley ordered his men to follow suit. Harry followed the group, marveling in the scene. How utterly barbaric. Wizards using their hands? Their fists? At the time of the Founders, wizards and witches used swords just as well as wands. As time went on, the blade fell way to the convenience of the wand and the lack of proper instructors.

Lost in the sea of Aurors and Death Eaters, Harry focused on the group of hostages. He used his Empathy to make them get off their arses and fight back. Why were they so frightened? He could taste their fear and their hopelessness. Perhaps if magic had worked properly, Harry could understand their hesitance.

However, this was an antiquated fight. Everyone was on the same skill level.

With the exception of Harry, of course, and…

His eyes immediately looked for the half-demon. As soon as he’d seen the creature standing in the Atrium, he’d recognized the man as the same one who’d protected Braun that night of the assassination. Harry had wounded him enough to send him licking his wounds, but he hadn’t killed him. He’d thought he’d seen the last of the demon, but clearly, the man worked with Regbo.

Taking advantage of Harry’s distraction, the entity was already closing in on Riddle.

Harry swore, feeling a sharp pain in his forearm. The shock of the pain nearly made him hesitate further, yet he pushed away the disruption and sprinted towards the Dark Lord. Damn the man for being so calm. No amount of serpents were going to stop the half-demon. Yet, there he was, watching the approach through half-lidded eyes, as if he had anticipated all this.

And perhaps he had.

“I should just kill you,” Harry snarled as he spun in front of Riddle and blocked the oncoming throwing knife with his dagger. “Your bloody wand _made_ me your protector.”

It suddenly made sense. Stratton’s words. Yet, how had the man known Salazar’s wand bonded with Harry for the sole reason of protecting Voldemort? Harry didn’t _feel_ as if his mind were being controlled. He felt a drive to protect Riddle, but he’d thought that was his own doing, his own pathetic thinking.

“I want to be on equal ground with you,” Riddle murmured from behind Harry. “The wand ensured we’d be on the same playing field with the same, cruel disadvantages.”

What did that _mean?_ That Riddle felt inclined to protect Harry as well?

A boot came out of nowhere and kicked Harry hard in the chest. He flew back into Riddle, colliding with the man and causing them to fall to the ground. He hurriedly raised his dagger, or rather Salazar’s wand, and blocked the demon’s sword strike. Immediately sensing Harry’s desires, Salazar’s wand transformed into a longer sword.

The half-demon hardly seemed phased at the magical weapon. “You’re never too far from your master, are you? Braun might have thought you were Riddle’s queen, but you are nothing but a _dog_.”

“You’re still not over my victory, are you?” Harry bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin. “You’re a rather sore loser.”

He was sprawled uncomfortably on Riddle’s lap. While he would have enjoyed the position at any other time, now simply was not the time. He threw out his foot and caught the demon’s knee. At once, he rolled off Riddle and intended to stab the demon in the stomach. Only, a fist caught him across the face, sending him to the ground once more.

The force of it surprised him. He knew the entity was stronger than an ordinary human, but Harry hadn’t anticipated any fists. He rolled away from another sword strike and jumped agilely to his feet. Raising his sword, he blocked the heated assaults from the demon, forced to step back with each hit.

“Potter!”

He knew that voice.

Zabini.

He chanced a distracted look over his shoulder, spying him and Astoria above on the catwalk. He’d brought them along, Astoria because she begged him and Zabini because the boy owed him a life debt. After Stratton’s warning about Voldemort being _powerless,_ Harry anticipated there would be runes involved. Or potions. Either option, he admitted to needing help. He’d planned ahead, planned an army, and planned for backup.

He’d asked Astoria and Zabini to find and interpret the rune while Voldemort’s Inner Circle distracted the enemies.

Clearly, they’d found it.

“It’s being anchored,” Zabini yelled, his voice nearly getting lost amongst the chaos in the Atrium. In his hands, he clutched a textbook. “It can’t be destroyed unless the creator is destroyed or leaves the premises.”

Harry had a sinking suspicion that the demon was the individual who’d erected the rune. That meant Harry needed to kill the entity or wound him enough to send him running once more. Unfortunately, as soon as Harry came to that conclusion, more men in porcelain masks came flooding into the Atrium from above.

_Bloody hell._

They were sadly outnumbered now. Regbo truly intended to take over the Ministry and assassinate Riddle. He must have taken into account that there would be issues, but he’d certainly recruited enough people to overpower and compensate for any obstacles.

_Recruit, or control mentally?_

He’d remembered Braun and the children. He remembered Stratton’s warning. Regbo was dangerous, yet he had yet to make an appearance today. Harry had a sinking suspicion that today was just a trial. The man was simply testing the waters. He would see what would work and what went wrong and adjust accordingly.

The half-demon’s attention landed on Zabini and Astoria. Abruptly, the entity abandoned Harry to leap cleanly onto the catwalk. Harry’s sword abruptly transformed into a bracelet as he ran and jumped, allowing both his hands free reign as they grabbed the edge of the catwalk. He swung his body on top and raced after the half-demon.

Only, as soon as he flipped himself in front of Zabini and Greengrass, the whole Ministry trembled profoundly, causing the catwalk to swing madly. Everyone seemed to pause at the sudden vibrations, wondering if there were more explosives. Harry hoped that wasn’t the case. The Ministry did not function properly without magic holding it together. The structure may collapse entirely if they continued to blow things up.

There were hundreds upon hundreds of witches and wizards still trapped underground.

It would mean mass destruction and death.

His attention immediately dropped to Voldemort, noticing the smug expression on the man’s face as he glanced slyly up at Harry. The Dark Lord hardly even _flinched_ as something massive shot through the floor and caused a shower of debris.

A basilisk.

After the shock registered, he couldn’t help but to chuckle. The man truly thought he had won one over on Harry simply because he had a pet basilisk. Unfortunately, he’d be right. This was Voldemort’s terrain, after all. He’d have his own tricks and traps up his sleeve, and who would have thought a basilisk lingered in the walls of the Ministry?

Well, no one, but it should have been evident considering Voldemort’s Slytherin lineage. It was bloody wicked.

Regbo’s men abruptly ran.

Aurors ran.

Hit Wizards ran.

The civilians certainly followed.

Harry watched them scramble away, Regbo’s men finding an alternative way in and out the Ministry and the Aurors all but followed. Harry shook his head. Fools. Voldemort was wicked, but he wouldn’t have ordered the basilisk to attack Aurors and Hit Wizards, especially when he still maintained the Minister Riddle persona. Basilisks were intelligent enough to follow explicit orders from their masters. They would have kept a protective film over their eyes in the presence of friendly company.

A blade caught him across the cheek. If Harry hadn’t ducked in time, it would have sliced across his neck. He turned back to the demon, cursing himself for being distracted. He felt Greengrass and Zabini retreat behind him and Harry focused on his opponent.

The demon wasn’t going to retreat.

A few other members of Regbo’s army stayed behind as well, choosing to honor their Lord’s orders.

Harry blocked and he parried, slicing the demon a few times with his blade. The catwalk was narrow and Harry was not accustomed to such a small space. He tried to keep his focus, he tried to hone his reflexes, but with the basilisk’s movement below, it caused the catwalk to sway.  

The demon’s attacks were frenzied, passionate. Harry exhaled as he remained on the defense.

“Shit,” Harry cursed sharply as he executed the wrong counter move. He realized as soon as he did it and overcompensated as means to protect himself. The demon immediately took advantage, eagerly honing in on Harry’s misstep and executing a merciless strike.

The blade slid through his stomach, no doubt nicking his liver. Harry whimpered, the pain astounding him and robbing him of oxygen. He floundered for a moment, his mind in shock as the blade withdrew. The demon then kicked him in the chest, sending Harry over the edge of the catwalk.

Before he descended, Harry quickly executed one last act of retribution by slashing his sword across the demon’s throat.

Completely unsuspecting, the entity hadn’t blocked the attack in time. A spray of blood coated Harry’s face as he fell to the Atrium below. He heard his name being called piercingly and imagined Greengrass getting her knickers in a bundle. Oh, how pathetic he must look—

His back slammed onto the ground, and just that instant, the magic returned to the Ministry.

He stared blankly up at the ceiling. The fall hadn’t been too far, but it certainly jarred his wound and altered something in his back…

Zabini’s desperate face came into Harry’s cloudy view. The dark-skinned boy leaned down and picked him up, throwing him none too gently over his shoulder. The alarms in the Ministry were blaring and the gates to the Floo Network were closing. They ran and Harry dimly noticed Kingsley yelling something across the Atrium.

Spells soon followed, but Zabini was quicker.

He dived into the Floo Network, whisking them away just in time.

“Potter.”

“Potter!”

Clammy hands patted his cheeks. They were somewhere above ground, somewhere in a confined space. He could hear the flush of loos and realized they were just above the Ministry. They still weren’t safe. “Astoria,” Harry croaked.

“She’s fine. She got out just after us.” Zabini shook his head, his hands stained with blood. “Potter, you need to go see a Healer. I got you away from the Aurors before they could capture you, but maybe capture was for the best. At least you would have _lived._ Potter? Potter! Are you listening to me? Stay with me!”

He was being ridiculously loud and frantic, Harry thought sluggishly. “You’ve repaid your debt, Zabini.”

Zabini leaned back, withdrawing his hands. “Like _hell_ I have!”

Harry closed his eyes and wiggled his fingers at his sides. Salazar’s wand untangled itself from a tight bracelet to a wand that fit snugly in the palm of his hand. “Run and hide, Zabini.”

Without as much as another word to the boy, Harry Disapparated.

He was going to die. He knew that.

He just didn’t want to die on the bathroom floor with Zabini’s face pressed up against his own. He wanted to come back _here,_ to his flat _._ It was surely under Auror surveillance after Harry’s most recent capture, but it was empty now, and that’s all that mattered. Slowly, he got to his hands and knees and crawled his way to the bedroom.

The blood dripping from the wound was what would kill him. Blood loss. He could try to stop it, but he’d already lost too much. The crimson liquid made a steady trail behind him as he blindly groped his way into the closet. Pressing a bloody hand against the wall, it shifted open, revealing the white room— _his sanctuary_.

He’d learned long ago to sleep with the lights off. He no longer needed to retreat here to have rest. 

Only, this was where he felt most at peace. Where he’d always felt safe.

Settling against the far corner of the room, he stared at the photograph on the white nightstand. His mother and father smiled and waved at Harry. He’d be with them soon. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d go to hell. Maybe he’d just become _nothing._ Maybe he’d get answers to what truly happened with his mother, though it wouldn’t matter any longer. Would it?

The pain would go away, the suffering and the _emotions._

Oh Merlin, the emotions would go away.

Harry closed his eyes with relief and pressed his head against the wall.

“I always wondered where you slept after witnessing Severus’ memory of a lost, sad little boy.” A voice pierced through the quiet, through Harry’s blissful anticipation of the end. “You were so afraid to be unconscious in the dark. You had to sleep with the lights on. What an ingenious solution. A bit too bright for my tastes, but sufficient.”

Furrowing his brows, Harry struggled to lift his eyelids.

Across from him, Riddle crouched, watching him. How long had he been there? His features were youthful and his crimson eyes were bright, focused, and entirely trained on Harry. “You’re dying,” Riddle whispered softly, “Yet here you are, more at peace than I’d ever witnessed.”

“I’m not afraid of facing the end.”

“No, you’re not, and I truly respect you for that.” Riddle’s voice seemed so far away. “Just like a cat who hides as death nears, you hide away in order to keep your honor, to hide your vulnerability. Nowhere on your expression, or your aura, do I sense the utmost fear. You are entirely at peace.”

“I have no regrets.”

Silence and time stretched. He was in and out of consciousness. Riddle might have said something else, but it fell on deaf ears.

Fingers suddenly probed his deep wound and Harry’s eyes shot open with the pain. With sharp awareness. He stared into cruel crimson. Riddle’s pale features were rather stoic, yet an icy and malevolent expression clouded the edges. The man’s lips parted into a forbidding smile.

“I apologize, Harry, that I must take away the peace that you’ve been desperately yearning for.” He pressed further into the wound, causing Harry to exhale shakily. “You see, as I’ve told you before, I am not through with you just yet. You are _mine._ And dying is not part of my plans for you. For us.”

Riddle leaned forward, inhaling the frantic pants that escaped Harry’s mouth. His lashes fluttered closed for just a moment as he took in Harry’s essence. Leaning forward, his lips teased the delicate skin underneath Harry’s eyes before firmly embracing the younger man.

It was a hug. There was no other way to describe it. Unintentionally, Harry’s face pressed into the crook of Riddle’s neck as he felt arms wrap around his shivering body. The long-fingered hands suddenly lowered and grabbed the back of Harry’s thighs, lifting him cleanly off the ground. Harry wanted to tear away, to argue, yet he was too weak as Riddle carried him away from his white sanctuary.

“I hate you,” Harry breathed into Riddle’s neck, closing his eyes.

Riddle’s poignant Dark magic curled around Harry and instantly soothed him. “Sleep now, child.”

**. . & Darkness. .**

Harry hadn’t remembered much.

He remembered the precise hands working on his wound and burning potions that smelt horribly sterile. He remembered the soft mattress and even softer sheets. The sleep was wonderful. How could it not be when he knew Riddle would smoother him with strong protection charms that no Death Eater or Auror could possibly unlock?

As much as he hated it, despised it, he felt safe with Riddle. Did that mean Riddle was his new sanctuary?

“I’d say… by now you’re just being lazy.”

Harry clenched his jaw and ground his teeth together at the arrogant tone. Just because he felt safe with Riddle didn’t mean he enjoyed the man’s overbearing presence. “I’m healing.” His words were hoarse, scratchy.

A chuckle.

“Whatever you say, Harry.”

It took a great deal of mental strength to open his eyes. A large part of him wanted to sleep more, especially if it meant he didn’t need to deal with Riddle quite yet. It was inevitable, though. He highly doubted he could slip past Riddle in his current condition and avoid a confrontation. It was better to get it over with now.

But what would he say? How could he possibly say what he wanted to when his emotions were muddied? Confused? He hated Riddle, yet he yearned for the man. He felt betrayed by the Dark Lord, but he felt the need to protect him, to be close to him. It was a pull and push relationship—an exhausting and complex dance.

“You saved me,” Harry declared stonily to the ceiling. “Even though I didn’t want it.”

“And you saved me,” Riddle countered challengingly, “Though I had my own tricks up my sleeve.”

Harry’s eyes closed against his bitter amusement. A slow, indolent smile crossed his lips against his better judgement. “Are we destined to always do this?” he asked, keeping his eyes closed. “A counter move to a counter move?”

“I’d imagine so.” Riddle sounded vague. He hid his emotions well. “As long as one of us is on higher ground, the other will fight to reestablish equilibrium. We excel in different areas, but I believe you and I are very much alike. You expect me to view you as worthy and equal, and I expect the same from you. And you don’t simply _expect_ it; you continuously demonstrate that you will earn it.”

Something did not sit right with him.

Harry inhaled deeply, testing his body, feeling his body. There was a dull pain in his stomach, though it was nearly healed. Slowly, he sat up, feeling the satin sheets pool at his naked waist. He was not going to carry on this conversation in such a vulnerable position. He wanted to be fully aware of Riddle and everything Riddle did.

He was in Riddle’s master suite. It reminded him of that day he’d found out about Lord Voldemort and his influence over his mother’s group. He hadn’t known at the time that Voldemort and Riddle were the same entity. He’d learned so much since then, discovered so much.

Placing his feet on the soft rug, Harry centered himself, willing the dizziness to subside. Once it did, he stood up, testing the strength of his body. It was well-rested, though a bit stiff. He felt comfortable enough to push himself if need be. His wand was at his bedside, never too far from his person. He was dressed in his pants and his boots were near the foot of the bed.

If he needed a quick escape, it would be feasible.

After analyzing his physical state, he observed his surroundings. The door was at his back, no doubt laced with strong wards to keep people out and _in._ The bookcases took up the majority of the walls, filled to the brim with thick texts and intriguing artifacts. The large bed took precedence in the middle of the room with its ridiculously soft sheets and inviting warmth.

There were no other exits. Save for the fireplace.

Finally, he faced the one and only threat in the room.

The Dark Lord sat at the far end, near the study area. He had a book laying on his lap, though he’d discarded it in favor of languidly watching Harry. A small, nearly inconspicuous smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, as if he knew Harry were carefully studying his surroundings and readying himself for a confrontation.

He didn’t say anything. When his red eyes were bored obsessing over Harry’s face, they slowly descended to his bare torso, possessively admiring the view.

“What’s stopping me from continuing to destroy your regime?” Harry asked, standing tall and proud in the middle of the room. He might have been half-naked, but he was comfortable with his body. “You brought me back from the dead, but I don’t owe you anything.”

Riddle sighed softly, tearing his gaze from Harry’s narrow hips and refocusing on his eyes. “Let’s play this, then.” His spidery hands closed his book and set it aside. Standing up, his tall frame slowly approached Harry. “Theoretically, if we were to continue that delightful game, of you masterfully moving around your Auror pieces and I moving my followers, I would say you’d be at a disadvantage.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow at that. “Oh?” he inquired softy. “Well, theoretically, I call your bluff.”

Red eyes widened a margin, not out of surprise but of complete and utter enthrall. Riddle approached a bit closer, his proximity a teasing presence. He kept his distance, but it was evident he wanted to move closer. “I know your Achilles heel. I would have killed all those that you loved.”

“Yes, you could, but then what will you do?” Harry lifted his chin, a vision of control and poise as he faced opposite of Riddle. “I admit, it would hurt losing them, but after those very _few_ people die, I will have nothing left for you to take. _You,_ on the other hand, have decade’s worth of things to take and destroy. You have built yourself a secret regime.”

Harry smiled widely, already thinking this through before he started this game with Riddle.

He had Riddle’s complete attention.

“I’ve only had a few days with the knowledge of Lord Voldemort, but in that short amount of time, I have already revealed the identities of a great majority of your followers and captured your Inner Circle. I enjoyed killing your right hand Death Eater. Imagine what I could do if I was a man with nothing left to lose and unlimited time on my hands.” 

He rubbed Bellatrix’s death in his face, only because it felt so _good._

Bastard.

Stepping closer and closing the gap between them, Harry looked up at Riddle. His smile turned into a pleased smirk. “ _Theoretically,_ Tom, _you_ would have been at a disadvantage.”

Fueled by the crackling tension, cold hands grabbed his face and smashed their lips together. Harry melted bonelessly against Riddle, his pulse racing too fast and Riddle’s eager mouth sucking the air from his lungs. Beyond excited, Harry curled his hands around Riddle’s throat. He pressed their chests together, moaning into the kiss.

Because Riddle had a significant height advantage, Harry’s neck was forced backward at an uncomfortable angle. He didn’t mind it. Everything about Riddle was to the extreme. All his emotions for Riddle, all his beliefs about Riddle, his _reactions_ to Riddle… it was pleasingly overwhelming.

They had so many things to work through, to clear up, questions to answer, but Harry wanted to fuck Riddle. He wanted this, needed this primal urge. Merlin, it had been a long time coming and an excruciating wait.

Breaking the kiss, Riddle unfastened his robes. Harry immediately noticed the man’s trembling fingers. A part of him preened at that. Riddle wanted this almost, if not more than Harry did. From day _one,_ the Dark Lord stated his interest. Harry could only imagine how many nights the Dark Lord fantasized this very instance.

But to know he—Harry— had caused the Dark Lord to _tremble_ with excitement…

Oh my, but wasn’t that delicious?

As if sensing his own glaring weakness, the Dark Lord magically removed the rest of his and Harry’s clothing, effectively hiding the tremors in his hands. Immediately, he reached for Harry, grabbing him harshly and pushing him onto the bed. Harry had to laugh as his back hit the mattress, pleased tremendously.

“There is a part of me that would very much like to see our game played out until the very end. For how thrilling that would be, I can only imagine,” Riddle informed firmly, straddling Harry’s lap. Their cocks brushed and Harry arched up, nearly mewing. Riddle’s fingers touched Harry’s exposed throat greedily. “Alas, I think we are destined for something else. Something more…superior.”

Harry grabbed Riddle’s hips and forced the man’s arse to brush across his cock. The friction was pleasant and he thrust upwards, wanting release, needing it. He was far too close already. Judging from Riddle’s heavy and straining member, the Dark Lord was just as close to climaxing.

They were pathetic.

Why perform foreplay when they got off with just the other man’s mere presence and proximity?

Riddle reared up, making his way towards Harry’s face. His cock bobbed eagerly in front of Harry’s mouth and drops of precum dripped steadily onto Harry’s lips.

“Open.”

Harry’s fingers curled pleasantly into the sheets as he obliged Riddle’s order. The cock was warm and firm in his mouth and Harry eagerly tasted the masculine musk and felt the protruding veins. He sucked and he caressed with his tongue. Riddle lowered himself further, his knees on either side of Harry’s head and his balls brushing against his chin.

Just as Harry expected, Riddle raked his fingers possessively through Harry’s hair and tugged hard at the roots. Forcing Harry’s head further back, Riddle began to use his mouth for his own personal satisfaction. His opposite hand abruptly closed Harry’s nostrils, preventing airflow and taking total control.

_Yes…_

Harry let the man use him, finding his own cock straining painfully at the total dominance.

He let the complete control continue for a few seconds, the oxygen leaving his lungs slowly, yet steadily. He loved the increased pace of Riddle’s thrusts as the heavy balls slapped his chin rapidly, causing a stinging sensation in their wake. Saliva and precum leaked from the edges of Harry’s lips, yet he kept firm suction on the cock in his mouth.

But where was the fun for Riddle? The man surely got a high from physically dominating Harry, a feat he normally would find impossible to accomplish, but there was no fight.

No, Harry needed to give Riddle _more._

He needed to show the man he was equally as in control.

He twisted his tongue expertly, knowing exactly where and how to worship the cock. Directly underneath the lip of the head was his focus, as was the head itself. Riddle jerked at the sudden change, a sharp intake of breath the only evidence Harry needed to hear. He increased his tongue’s ministrations while finding Riddle’s arse with his hands.

His finger found Riddle’s hole and he eagerly dipped a finger inside, playing with the Dark Lord. Thrusting into the Dark Lord. Fucking him.

“You little _minx_ ,” Riddle cursed, his voice nearly unrecognizable in his lust.

The cock abruptly tore away from his mouth and ropes of cum shot violently across his face. Harry inhaled greedily, needing the air in order to laugh breathlessly. Riddle’s cock dipped inside his open mouth, filling it with a few more ropes of cum and coating his tongue. Harry touched his own cock, needing release, but Riddle had his own plans.

The man’s fingernails raked down his chest and stomach, carefully avoiding the recently healed wound.

And then his mouth engulfed Harry.

“Oh…” Harry raised a hand and wiped the cum off his face.

Cheating, and making sure he had Riddle’s attention, Harry sucked his fingers dry. With his mouth wrapped around Harry’s cock, Riddle’s eyes narrowed pleasantly and he gave a teasing nibble to his dick. Seeing stars, Harry abruptly hooked a leg around the backside of Riddle’s head and wrapped a hand in Riddle’s hair. He took full control of the blowjob, returning the favor.

He thrust deeply, feeling Riddle’s fingernails pierce his hips.

He wasn’t going to last.

The hot and wet cavern of Riddle’s mouth was divine, as was the pleasant suction he created with his mouth. And… oh dear Merlin… he even tried to replicate the little trick Harry had done earlier with his tongue.

Clutching Riddle in place, Harry emptied his seed in the Dark Lord’s mouth, his pulse racing madly against his ribs. There was something oddly erotic about having such a powerful wizard on his knees, forced to suck him completely dry. As Harry released Riddle’s hair, the Dark Lord licked the last essence of him before standing on his knees.

Green eyes lowered, immediately spying the man’s straining member.

“That’s right,” Riddle hissed, licking the side of his finger and eyeing Harry. “I am not done with you.”

“I would have been disappointed otherwise,” Harry countered, grinning. “Though it is impressive for a man your age.”

Crimson eyes brightened considerably at the taunt, yet he remained silent. The two men stared at the other, sizing each other up and soaking in their arousal. Harry knew what the Dark Lord was thinking. Taking control, exerting dominance during a blowjob was one thing, fucking was an entirely different act.

Riddle wanted—no— _needed_ to be on top, Harry knew. The way the man’s cock kept twitching with the continued stare down was evidence enough. Riddle was most likely envisioning the act, nearly _tasting_ the victory of mounting Harry after so long. Suddenly, the strong, cool feel of Riddle’s magic filled the room.

Harry’s shoulders stiffened as he felt Riddle release his magic. He _knew_ how Harry felt with his magic.

“You’re cheating,” Harry informed, his breath coming in shorter increments.

The Darkness engulfed him, seduced him. It was Riddle’s own brand of Empathy. Only, every man and woman felt the Darkness differently. Harry just had a soft spot for it, he longed to bathe in it and harness it for himself, though he knew that would be impossible. He was not a loyal servant to the Dark as Riddle was. Nor would he ever be.

Riddle leaned forward on his hands and rocked towards Harry. Stretching out on top of the younger wizard, Riddle kissed him passionately.

The kiss didn’t last long. “This time, no arguing,” Riddle demanded conceitedly against Harry’s lips. Oddly enough, his hands still trembled with unsuppressed excitement as they grabbed Harry’s hips. Roughly, he turned the younger man over to his knees. “Allow me this.”

Merlin, Harry was a pushover. He was a virgin this way. He had always been the one fucking other men, never on the receiving end. With Riddle’s intoxicating magic calming him, seducing him, Harry found himself poised like an animal for Riddle to mount. And mount he did. The Dark Lord was immediately on top of him, impatiently using his fingers to stretch Harry.

He should have prepared him longer. The man was quite aware of the fact that Harry always topped in his previous relationships and this was new to him. Yet, impatience, dark hunger, and the persistent excitement to dominate all factored into Riddle’s insistence to lube his dick and press it against Harry in a matter of seconds.

Strong, firm hands grabbed Harry’s hips as Riddle’s cock forced its way inside.

Harry slammed his eyes closed the same instant Riddle moaned. With his fingers curled into the bed, Harry tried to relax his body. Riddle’s cock was barely inside, having yet to bottom out.

“Riddle,” Harry growled. “Get on with it.”

Not needing to be told twice, Riddle pressed further inside, snugly placing his balls against Harry’s arse. The magic in the air turned warm and sticky, nearly suffocating. It was a sweetness and intoxication. Harry inhaled, trying to use it as a drug to get familiar with the thick invasion within him.

“Yes,” Riddle whispered. “ _Yes.”_

His fingers tightened on Harry’s hips as he slowly began to move. At least he had the decency to slowly introduce Harry to his girth. Before long, Riddle inched further on top Harry, thrusting faster. His body began to curve on top Harry’s back, his weight nearly crushing as he bent over the younger wizard and continued to fuck him.

Harry supported the man’s weight, hating that there was sharp pleasure in each thrust. He shouldn’t have enjoyed this… being treated like a fucking _animal._ But he did. And he loved that Riddle was not gentle. He loved the fingers piercing his hips and causing his skin to bleed. He loved hearing the balls slap against his arse and the headboard slam against the wall. He bloody loved feeling Riddle’s sweaty body crush him from above, almost as if he had no regard for Harry’s own comfort. Just as long as he got what he wanted.

Most of all, he loved the depravity of the magic surrounding them. He could feel and taste the taint of Riddle. It was only a small preview of what was underneath all those Occlumency barriers, but it was there and it was fumigating the room along with the scent of sex.

“You’re mine,” Riddle informed huskily from above him. “Harry.”

Harry had nothing to say, so lost in his own pleasure. Riddle might have believed he belonged to him, but he was quite positive that Riddle was utterly obsessed and entirely hooked on Harry.

Satisfied with that belief, Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the fucking. One of Riddle’s hands left Harry’s narrow hip and grabbed his straining cock. He stroked it in time with his thrusts, creating a wonderful rhythm. Harry’s lips pressed together as he felt himself near the edge. Damn it to hell, he was _not_ going to climax before Riddle. He refused.

Riddle abruptly removed himself from Harry, taking the weight, the pleasurable heat, and the magic with him.

“Wha—”

Hands grabbed his hips and twisted him back around, pushing his back into the mattress. Harry stared up at Riddle as the man grabbed both his knees and brought them nearly up to his chest. Easily flexible, Harry allowed the action, watching smugly as Riddle seemed nearly flustered with the prospect of burying himself back inside Harry.

Riddle kept his eyes on Harry as he grabbed his weeping cock and entered him once more. Almost as if the separation were too much, Riddle covered Harry with his body and continued his thrusts. The change in position was nearly jarring. The fucking wasn’t nearly as animal-like, nor as pleasing, but certainly still enjoyable.

It took him a moment before he realized why Riddle initiated this position.

It was the bloody eye contact.

Harry’s lips parted into a grin.

Riddle wanted to think he was brutal and sadistic, but he was a bloody romantic sap at heart. He persisted on always kissing and he wanted to watch Harry as they fucked. It was intimate. Moreover, it was entirely Riddle. Or perhaps the face-to-face was for Riddle to establish further control. So Harry was forced to see who was fucking him so deliciously into the mattress.

Harry wrapped his legs around Riddle, deepening the thrusts. “Riddle…” Harry moaned. “You’re a bloody control freak.”

Riddle’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smirk. He did a rather brutal thrust, his hands reaching up and curling around Harry’s throat. He squeezed, applying a surprising amount of pressure while he pounded into his arse. “And you… Harry… are such a delicious little thing, aren’t you?”

Leaning down, Riddle claimed his lips. The thrusting slowed down considerably and became deeper, longer. Harry arched up into Riddle, feeding him wave and wave of strong Empathy. Occlumency would prevent Riddle from feeling Harry’s influence, however, the man stiffened as Harry channeled desire and yearning.

Riddle sighed into the kiss and took hold of Harry’s cock. Once again stroking it in rhythm with his own thrusts, Riddle pressed his forehead against Harry’s and stared into his eyes like the bloody sap he was.

Harry ran his hands through Riddle’s hair, clutching it, tugging at it affectionately. He initiated the next kiss, surprised at himself for deepening it and making it almost _tender._ Riddle’s magic wrapped around him possessively and Harry, knowing Riddle felt a sliver of his Empathy, wrapped his own influence around the Dark Lord.

He and Riddle climaxed, though Harry wasn’t sure who had done so first.

Riddle slumped into him, still buried deep inside him. They were both breathing heavily and Harry could feel the man’s heart beating rapidly against his chest. Or was that his own? His eyes stared up at the ceiling past Riddle’s shoulder. Merlin that was good. That was… bloody good. The best, certainly. Not that Riddle needed to hear that.

Fingers caressed his side soothingly and Harry closed his eyes into the touch.

“You still owe me—”

_Explanations._

“Yes, I know,” Riddle interrupted quietly. He pressed his face into Harry’s neck and smiled. “Not tonight. Let us enjoy this.”

Harry frowned, but his expression cleared a moment later as Riddle continued his caress. So be it. If they wanted to play coy and forget the outside world for just one night, Harry had no reservations. A part of him—a very sentimental part of him— hoped the explanations tomorrow would not change _this._

He rather liked this.


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is too powerful and Riddle is too weak. Other times, Harry is too weak, Riddle too powerful. You can never really strike a happy median for everyone, can ya? In this story, there are three strong characters: Riddle, the master of magic. Harry, the master of emotion. Regbo, the master of the mind. We have yet to truly see Riddle and Regbo in action.
> 
> Soon.

**29\. Chapter Twenty-Nine**

" _Tonks?"_

 _Elbowing his way through the crowd, Remus couldn't find her fast enough. They were all in his_ way. _"Excuse me, please!" Remus swam through the traumatized group of witches and wizards as they looked toward the group of gathered Aurors._

_Around their gathering forms, a few discarded bodies lay. Sheets covered their prone forms, hiding their identity and giving them a semblance of concealment. The sheets could not hide the bloodstains. And the sheets did not discriminate the size of the body they covered either. Some bodies beneath were large, some were abnormally small._

_Remus stared at the wreckage, smelling the blood, smelling the fear and utmost horror._

_He could smell_ them.

_His hackles rose at the mere scent. He was surprised there was enough blood to make puddles._

" _Alastor!" Remus cried out, seeing the Head of Magical Law Enforcement._

_He pushed through the crowd and approached the grey-haired Auror. The man's dark eyes narrowed as they watched Remus' approach. As soon as the man identified him, a tight line appeared on his already thin lips. Remus instantly hesitated at the fierce expression. He and Alastor Moody were on good terms._

_Or at least he'd thought._

" _Lupin," Moody growled in greeting. He nodded to a few Aurors and they gave him varying_ looks _before departing. "Come over here." The man lifted a hand and placed it on Remus' shoulder, steering him further away from the Aurors and further away from the gawking spectators._

" _Where is Tonks?" Remus pressed, straining his neck around to look at the group of Aurors. James and Sirius weren't in this particular group. "She's under your mentorship. Shouldn't she be here?" He licked his lips. "When I heard about the attack—"_

" _It was a rogue attack. Completely random."_

_They stopped and Remus shook his head._

" _Vampire attacks are never random. This is their true nature."_

 _Moody's beady eyes stared at him. "I had a feeling you'd think as much." He looked over Remus' shoulder at the bodies. "But what makes this any different than werewolves on the full moon, eh? What makes this any different than a wizard whose gone mad with the Dark Arts? This was an_ isolated _attack."_

_Frustration and impatience immediately set Remus on edge. "Ok." He ran a hand through his hair. "You are the expert, Moody." Smiling ruefully, he raised his eyebrows. "Where is Tonks? I came here to see Tonks."_

" _I'm sorry, Lupin."_

_The words froze him, chilled him to his very bones. After trying, and failing, to take in proper oxygen, Remus gasped shakily. "Don't do that."_

_Moody crouched next to a corpse and moved aside the corner of a white sheet, revealing Tonks. The old Auror's face was carved from stone, making him appear very much like a solemn statue. His fingers tightened around the sheet as he stared at Tonks._

" _She just told me she was with child. She fought to protect many today, Lupin. She was a force."_

" _No."_

_Remus fell to the ground, his knees stinging madly at the harsh impact. As he crawled towards Tonks, his palms scraped against the unforgiving gravel and immediately drew blood. As he fisted the white sheet, his bloodstains overlapped Tonks' drying blood, creating an inky, sick blackness._

_Sobs shook his body as he reached for her. The shocking amber hair she'd worn today was now her natural, light brown hair. Her face was pale, too pale from the loss of blood. He knew pregnant women tasted good to vampires. The beast probably hadn't been able to savor her before Aurors took him down._

_They'd argued that morning about her role with the Aurors. Remus had pleaded with her to take desk duties, at least until the baby was born. As predicted, Tonks convinced him that things would be ok. She would stay a field Auror until she was closer to her due date._

_Remus squeezed his eyes shut, clutching her to his chest as he cried._

_His mate._

_His cub._

_She'd been his everything._

" _Lupin."_

_Inhaling her, Remus gently stroked her hair as he ignored the outside world. She'd been the only one to see past his lycanthropy. She had wanted to start a family, always optimistic about their future, their children. She'd been so young, so full of life, yet she always possessed a certain astuteness beyond her years._

" _Nymphadora," Remus whispered brokenly._

"Lupin."

Remus blinked and turned away from the stretch of never-ending meadows. In the distance, a storm was brewing, creating an ombré of ominous blues. There were no trees, no buildings for miles. Even with his sharp eyesight, he could see nothing but tall, gold grass.

So very barren with the exception of the old castle before him.

Greyback lifted a lip. "Distracted?"

"Not at all," Remus replied levelly, following his Alpha up the steps.

Three other members of their pack followed at their heels. They entered the gothic manor, hardly marveling at the ancient stone and the beautifully stained-glass windows. Wrought iron decorated the interior, a harsh and handsome contrast against the dark wood and rustic stone.

As werewolves in the wild, they bypassed the demonstration of splendor and continued down the massive hallway. Perhaps many years ago, Remus would have marveled in the architecture, the history, but he was more concerned over the danger. There was a discreet scent of blood and death in the air, an unsettling contrast to the warm environment.

Two wizards in purple robes stood at attention in front of an expansive door. Their faces were void, as were their eyes as they werewolves stopped before them.

Remus' attention dropped to the porcelain masks discarded around their necks. They might as well have been wearing them. Their true faces expressed just as much emotion as the bland, expressionless masks. No personality showed through, not even a hint of opinion or judgement.

Glancing at Greyback, Remus knew the man was cruelly amused at the spectacle.

That's why they were here, wasn't it? Their Alpha saw an opportunity in the making.

Without so much as an interrogation or search, the two purple-clad wizards stepped aside and pushed open the massive door. The werewolves walked inside the hall, surprised at the incredibly high and vaulted ceilings. The majority of the hall was empty, save for a handcrafted chair sitting upon a raised dais.

Against the walls on either side of the hall stood an array of soldiers, all dressed in the same purple garb. Their eyes were blank, just as unresponsive as the man or woman next to them. Remus tried not to dwell too long on the scene. These toy soldiers must have been enemies at one time. From what he knew, Regbo did not make a habit of controlling his followers unless absolutely necessary.

"Hello."

All eyes turned to the slim and grandiose man sitting upon the handsome chair. Remus' lips twitched at the unfamiliar sight.

Pale eyes landed on him. "Remus Lupin, it feels like ages ago."

" _Ages ago_ makes us old and weary," Remus whispered. "It seems as if time has reversed for you."

Indeed, Regbo, who was once old—almost as old as the late Albus Dumbledore— now looked preserved at the young age of thirty. His face was free of wrinkles and now baby smooth, revealing his aristocratic bloodline. His grey hair was now a light blond and his steel eyes were bright with life.

Furthermore, the familiar _scent_.

Remus had mixed feelings for Regbo. The man had led Remus' research group with a firm, but guiding hand. He formed a bond with all the members, Lily included. Yet, somehow, the situation with Lily and her family had spiraled so out of control… Remus hadn't fully understood what had happened in those days.

Regbo claimed Riddle was responsible for James and Lily, but Remus was under the impression that wasn't entirely true. Regbo was just as guilty, as he had known what Lily was hiding. Hiding from _all_ of them.

His hands curled at his sides at her betrayal.

Even after her tragic death, and the death of James, it still sat horribly with him. How she could—

"I can't say the same for you, old friend." Regbo leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "You look decades older. Has times really been that difficult?" He looked to Greyback. "Let me assist you with your troubles, then. I believe that is why you agreed to come here today, is it not?"

"There has been rumors of two Dark Lords." Greyback squared his shoulders and looked Regbo in the eye. "The media and law enforcement haven't connected the dots, but we know more. We know Riddle is preparing to take his leap as a sole ruler of Britain and we also know about you and your quarrel with him."

Regbo leaned back pleasantly. "And you've come to offer your allegiance? To myself? To Gellert?"

Greyback hardly batted an eye. "Yes." His hands curled. "Frankly, we waited for Riddle to approach us about an allegiance; instead, he had the audacity to send one of his men to attack our reserve. He's clearly stated his intentions, as we intend to." A vicious smile crossed Greyback's face at the notion of destruction and death.

Remus shifted uneasily. This was his family now. His friends. His life.

He owed Greyback for taking him in those many years ago. He'd learned life was not black and white, but rather a very murky shade of grey. He'd accepted the animal he was and embraced his beast side. Despite the release the acceptance brought him, Remus could never escape the suffocating burden on his chest.

Something screamed at him, telling him that this was not his path to take.

He'd stubbornly ignored that sweet voice… that familiar but haunting voice. He knew this was not the right path. He'd seen and witnessed the evidence, but he could not stray from this destiny. Not anymore. Blood already soaked his hands and dripped a steady, accusing trail behind him.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Lupin? Do you not agree with such an allegiance?"

There was no Albus Dumbledore to run to for help. There was no such leader of the Light. If there had been, Remus was so far in the depths of darkness, he knew he'd never receive assistance anyway. What good could come out of siding with a Dark Lord or a Dark Lord? Was there a lesser evil?

His thoughts strayed to Harry, recognizing the sharp pain in his chest at the mere thought. Harry. Lily and James would be devastated if they knew what their son became. Moreover, Remus was entirely to blame, he knew that much. He accepted that much. But Harry, _gods Harry_.

Despite the boy's deeds, despite the darkness he cloaked himself with, Remus still saw goodness in him. It was twisted and completely warped, but it was still there.

The Potter line was destined to be Light, no matter the depravity of their actions.

Remus looked up at Regbo, no longer seeing the man he knew on a personal level. This man was something entirely new. "Harry," Remus whispered. Instantly, he became unnerved at the carnal glow in Regbo's eyes at the mention of the Potter heir. "I would like to spare him in this war."

Greyback shifted angrily. " _Potter,_ " he spat, "Gutted you and two other members of our pack!"

"Silence," Regbo ordered icily, not even sparing Greyback a second look.

Instantaneously, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, the Alpha werewolf stiffened with absolute silence. The atmosphere in the room grew cold and dangerous. Regbo was powerful magically, but in no way did his magic even compare to his mind magic. Though Remus was not the object of Regbo's frustration, he could still feel cold fingers clench warningly around his mind, his very consciousness.

Remus knew many of Regbo's confrontations with Voldemort would happen behind the scenes. It was to Regbo's benefit not to face off against Voldemort's potent Darkness.

"Tom Riddle is knuckles deep inside Harry."

Remus blinked at the odd phrasing, wondering if it was a sexual innuendo or just Regbo's unfamiliarity with the phrase. He frowned when he saw the slow, growing smile across Regbo's face. No, the man knew exactly what that meant.

"I don't—"

"Doubtless of their exclusive relationship, I am very interested in sparing Harry."

"Harry doesn't know anything. He doesn't know what Lily was doing or what is _inside_ him. He will be no help to you in regards to Gellert." He pressed his lips together immediately upon the mention of Grindelwald. He knew that was a particular touchy subject for Regbo. Yet, the man hardly seemed phased.

His expression hadn't altered much since the mention of Harry. Heavy lids and an indolent smile.

The man's eyes were _bright._

Had Regbo's fascination for Gellert somehow transferred onto Harry? But that was impossible. Regbo worshiped Gellert. He shaped his entire life around raising Gellert from the ashes, nursing him back to health, back to power. Changing the world just to mirror Gellert's radical beliefs! Harry was attractive and powerful in his own right, but he was no Grindelwald.

The fascination with Harry had to originate from the night Lily and James died.

When everything had changed.

There were things even Remus was oblivious to from that night and only Regbo held all the knowledge.

"I know he's oblivious," Regbo murmured. "I've tried many times to capture him, even before Riddle became aware of him. But alas, someone or _someone's_ always stood in the way." The Dark Lord leaned forward and smiled inexplicably. "Can you wager a guess who is protecting the boy? Who always seems to get in the way of our plans, Remus?"

Remus' unnerving swiftly turned hot with rage.

He lifted his lips, revealing his canines.

" _Vampires."_

**. . Dreams. .**

"France, Sweden, Norway, Russia…"

Kingsley laughed bitterly and rubbed his eyes tiredly. A bit of moisture wet his thumb and forefinger and Kingsley refused to believe they were tears of frustration. The others would think they were. He couldn't let them see. War had many difficulties, or, at least that's what Kingsley assumed.

He'd never participated in a war before.

"All Ministries shut us down completely." He kept his back turned to the small group. "Riddle already ensnared their loyalty, or at the very least their inactivity." He scoffed in bitter amusement. "But hadn't we anticipated this? He's had decades of acting behind the scenes. He's secured nearly all the powerhouses of different countries."

They were all quiet behind him. And why shouldn't they be? It was bleak.

"So, we can't count on outside help," Grey's voice broke the silence with utmost confidence. "That just means we need to continue recruiting from within our own borders. Already, we've received word from many families who will support us. Alastor Moody is rounding up more help and trying to establish an order. We have possession of Voldemort's Inner Circle—"

"For the time being."

Kingsley closed his eyes, gathered himself, and turned back around to the others. "This is the last time we meet like this. In Riddle's territory, no less." He looked around at the interrogation room. He'd swept for any surveillance charms, anything of the sort and found nothing. "The Wizengamot is going through each member. So far, half have walked away free."

"That's because half of the Wizengamot supports Riddle."

"Severus Snape, Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Greengrass, and both Carrows were found guilty and are being sent to Azkaban. That's better than having them all walk, I'd say. All of those individuals are powerful in their own right."

"What upsets me is that Riddle isn't making a move yet." Kingsley forced a sigh. "After his performance the other day with the basilisk, I thought for sure he'd drop the act." He raised his hands, about to do a gesture of frustration, before dropping them to his sides. It made sense, albeit frustratingly.

Tom Riddle struck Kingsley as the type of man who did things on his own terms. He wasn't going to have _Custos_ or anyone else dictate when he would act.

"And Grindelwald?"

"Two Dark Lords," Grey surmised unhappily. "As if it couldn't have gotten worse."

"I heard Grindelwald is still rotting away with wounds Albus Dumbledore gave him during their final confrontation." Wilson looked around at his comrades. "I'd say we are dealing with a wizard who wants to carry on Grindelwald's legacy and his style. I don't know much about him, but I may know someone who can get more information."

Kingsley nodded. "Find out. The more we know about our enemies, the easier it will be to eliminate the threat."

Solemn faces looked back at him. They were all grim, not at all hopeful. There were several casualties from yesterday, both Ministry workers and civilians. There would have been more, Kingsley realized, had Potter not shown up. They would have eventually figured out the rune, but by then, it would have been too late.

Or perhaps not…

He pondered the appearance of the basilisk. Riddle had summoned it with a surprising amount of smugness. It was if he'd waited for the opportune time to show off, to reveal his cards. The mere thought of having a basilisk _here,_ in the Ministry, put Kingsley on edge. It was just another tool their enemy had and they did not.

Nothing was said to the Minister regarding his pet. No one demanded that he get rid of it. If it weren't for the Minister, the sudden appearance of more enemies would have overpowered them entirely.

"In the meantime, I want to start training. I want to incorporate physical combat as well." He pressed his lips together at the very _sad_ memory of yesterday's attack. "I highly doubt Grindelwald—whomever he was—will execute the same battlefield strategy as he did yesterday. When _Custos_ pokes his nose into that sort of situation, he becomes superior and a threat to everyone, only because his allegiances are still unclear."

Grey made a sort of gesture with her mouth, a frown, but a stern grimace. "Is he alive?" she asked, her tone rather meek. "It didn't look good."

"Who the hell cares?"

Grey looks at Sanders sharply. "I want to know. I care."

"Then you are being unreasonably sentimental over a serial killer who prances around a Dark Lord for fun."

"Quiet!" Kingsley roared, silencing them instantly. "We will all have varying viewpoints on an array of controversies. _Custos_ is one of those controversies. As long as we all work together toward a common goal, I believe there is nothing wrong with expressing a different viewpoint on certain subjects."

He turned back to Grey, acknowledging her respectful nod with one of his own. "As far as Potter's condition, I am at a loss. Sirius Black's service will be today. Perhaps there may be a sighting of Potter."

"In which case, we would apprehend him doubtless of our… _varying viewpoints,_ isn't that right, sir?" Sanders asked smartly, raising an impatient eyebrow. "No matter how many lives he thinks he's saving, he's also taken many. He needs to be on the same boat as Voldemort's men on their trip to Azkaban."

Grey raised a defiant chin. "Considering what we may be up against, Sanders, _Custos_ may be more useful to us alive and free."

"You're going to trust a serial killer?"

"We can't even walk the halls of the Ministry without suspecting one of our own!" Grey countered fiercely.

"Too true," Auror Priest interrupted. "We need to take things one step at a time. We'll worry about what to do with _Custos_ when we are faced with that decision. In the meantime, I think we should carry on Auror Shacklebolt's orders and continue recruiting people we _can_ trust."

"Thank you, Priest."

And didn't Priest's words ring true? No one in the Ministry could be trusted, not even these few Aurors he pulled aside as an exclusive group. Kingsley acknowledged that. When he established his most trusted allies, including Moody and the Weasleys, they could talk more openly.

For now, this would have to do.

His thoughts lingered on Potter. He was uncertain about that man.

On one hand, Potter wanted to reveal Tom Riddle as Lord Voldemort and incarcerate his Inner Circle. On the other hand, however, he was willing to flaunt his abilities in front of the Dark Lord as some sort of courting ritual. Perhaps he wanted to impress the Dark Lord who hadn't taken much interest before.

No matter what it was, Kingsley pondered on the possibility of speaking with Potter face to face, without any confinements or life-threatening situations. Harry Potter was still inside _Custos._ James and Lily remained a factor in the boy's life. If Kingsley could appeal to that side of Potter, maybe they'd get a firmer partnership with the serial killer.

_If he was alive._

Kingsley sighed.

**. . & Darkness. .**

Harry sipped at the amber liquid, peering out into the overgrown Quidditch pitch. In the center, a controlled, burning fire roared. It cast long, deep shadows across the grounds, outlining the goal posts at the end of the makeshift pitch. There were no stands for this particular pitch, so Harry settled himself on the tall grass, near the fire.

He stared at the orange fire, swirling around the liquid in his glass.

Behind him, he could sense _his_ approach.

"I hadn't thought your semen was capable of transmuting into tracking charms," Harry said bitterly.

"Which is why I need to continue to replenish," was Riddle's cheeky, yet precise response. "I don't want you out by yourself. Foolish child."

Aw, there was that possessive and controlling tone Harry was waiting for. "Just because you fucked me, Riddle, doesn't mean you can order me around." Harry continued to stare into the fire. "You had your duties at the Ministry today, why should I sit around on my arse and wait for you?"

Riddle bent down and pressed his lips against Harry's temple. "It was a good day, thanks for asking, my dear."

Green eyes widened and he turned away from Riddle, unable to stop the grin. He fiddled with the glass in his hand, aware of Riddle sitting next to him. He was fortunate the Dark Lord had to work today, as it gave Harry time to recoup, to recover. Last night had been, Merlin, it had been good.

He did not regret it in the least.

It did bring up questions, though. How were they to interact with each other now? What were Harry's expectations of Riddle and vice versa? Were they in a committed relationship now?

Harry knew the answer to the last bit. Unless Riddle stated otherwise, he was to practice monogamy.

But how were they supposed to act with one another? Certainty not romantic and sappy, but did Riddle expect Harry's utmost loyalty to his cause? After reading the _Prophet—_ a very detailed and flattering article about _Custos_ saving the lives of Ministry workers and innocent bystanders— Harry learned the Aurors had custody of the Inner Circle. It _had_ been his intention, though he wondered what Riddle planned to do about it.

"What are you reminiscing about tonight?" Riddle asked.

Harry turned his head, admiring the way the fire played off the man's sharp-featured face. With a flourish wave, Riddle encompassed the overgrown and dingy Quidditch pitch. It truly was a morbid, pathetic sight.

"A life you can no longer live?" Riddle mused, as if he knew Harry so well and thought so little. "A Quidditch career you cannot pursue? Friends you cannot see again?"

"Actually," Harry started, taking another swig of bourbon. "I am celebrating a life lost too soon." He reached for the bottle of Gideon's Bourbon and poured himself some more fingers. "To Sirius Black, a surrogate father, or more appropriately, a big brother who was always there for me."

He toasted the sky, towards the general direction of the star of Sirius, before tipping back.

God, he was an idiot. The guilt he harbored over Sirius was a burning presence in his stomach, and it wasn't from the bourbon. The things he said to Sirius before his murder… they were callous. The way he'd acted was callous. If only he could have a few more minutes with him. To tell him how grateful he was for his presence after his parents' deaths…

The man had loved him, spoiled him, and nurtured him.

It truly was Harry's fault he was gone, yet he knew it was impossible to fix this particular mishap.

He made a face as he tipped back another ounce. "Not my preferred brand of bourbon, but it was his." He studied the bottle. "His service is today. I, of course, can't attend, but I thought I'd do something in his honor." With his head light with booze, he continued to talk Riddle's ear off. "This is the Quidditch pitch my father and Sirius built when I was young. They wanted to train me _appropriately,_ they said. They were so damn proud of themselves for building it."

White fingers suddenly curled around the bottle of Gideon's Bourbon.

Harry watched as Riddle took hold of the bottle and wrapped his lips around it. He drank straight from the source, his expression rather unimpressed as it went down his throat.

"I never liked Black," Riddle admitted. "But he knew his allegiances and stuck to them loyally. That, in itself, is an admirable trait." He took another sip before pouring some more in Harry's tumbler. "You have lost all your parental figures all before the ripe age of twenty-five. Do you feel lost, child?"

A sneer took precedence on his face. "Not especially." He stared at Riddle's profile, almost obsessively. "What was your childhood like? With your mother?"

It was surreal to see the Dark Lord sitting in an overgrown Quidditch pitch. Even more surreal was their conversation. Harry and Riddle conversed many times before, but nothing quite so personal. It was only fair he knew more about Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle. Wasn't it? Or was he assuming, just because they fucked, that he now had every right to know Riddle's deepest, darkest experiences?

He corrected himself. Yes, it was fair.

Riddle knew the inside of Harry's mind. He knew his horrors and his tragedies. What had Riddle said earlier? If either one of them felt the balance shift between them, they would fight for equilibrium. Well, that's what Harry intended to do tonight. Find out more about Tom Riddle's personal life so they would be on equal ground.

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment, as if contemplating whether to answer the question or not.

"Poverty," was Riddle's next words. "Poverty was what I remembered the most about growing up with Merope as a very young child. And hunger."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "It is surprising, given your status as a Gaunt. A Slytherin." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass again, admiring the hue. "But I suppose it makes sense. The Gaunts were rather…"

"Inbred and deranged?" Riddle scoffed. "They were just as underprivileged as beggars on the street. They verbally and physically abused my mother. When she found out she was pregnant with me, a _Half-blood,_ she ran. She gave birth in an orphanage. They allowed us to stay there for a few years before it closed down. We were in and out of shelters after that, unable to eat for days at a time."

"Why didn't she appeal to the Riddles for help?"

Tom looked at Harry from the corner of his eye. "The Riddles were the worse sort of scum." He turned away. "My mother all but raped Tom Riddle, using a love potion to subdue and gain his compliance. Going back to him, after he ran away upon hearing the news she was pregnant, wasn't an option. I am proud of her for resisting that temptation."

"Yet she named you after him…"

"For my beauty, she said," Riddle's lips quirked. "Just because he ran, just because she refused to go back, did not quell her obsession. For many years, she carried a flame for him."

Harry tried to imagine a young Tom Riddle dressed in rags and fighting for food. It did not conjure itself, though he knew it to be true. "And when Hogwarts started? What did your mother do?" He could only imagine a young Tom Riddle's face as he sat down for the Hogwarts feast for the first time.

"I have no idea what she did to scrap by during that year. Whore herself out, perhaps. She was a witch, but a very mistreated witch. Her powers were meek and suppressed due to her treatment with the Gaunts. She had a… child-like mentality. The older I got, the more I realized just how much _she_ needed help.

"When I attended Hogwarts, things changed. I was able to form the right connections. I got her a job at Borgin and Burkes. She started earning money and she started investing herself in the Wizarding culture. During those Hogwarts years, I taught her a lot, and she taught me. We vowed we would make a new name for our family, cleanse the image of the rotting Gaunts and reestablish the Slytherin pride."

Riddle sipped from the bottle once more, his face a perfect mask of indifference.

"She was your one true companion," Harry observed thoughtfully. He imagined it. He could see it. "You went through so much together. I know she was your weakness."

"Very much so," Riddle concurred darkly. "Which is why… I searched for a cure."

The roaring fire suddenly shifted, diminishing and lowering to small, sparse flames. Harry stared at the fire, sensing Riddle's darkening aura. He kept a steady control over his emotions, though he wondered at Riddle's abrupt change of mood.

"You asked for answers." Crimson eyes turned to Harry. "Regarding your mother." Inclining his head, Riddle assessed him closely. "Merope was diagnosed with a terminal disease. It was a result of inbreeding amongst wizards. Incurable at the time and virtually impossible to research, I found someone who was willing to do anything to stop it."

Harry set down his tumbler and pulled up his knees. He sat back and stared at the distance, suddenly upset, knowing exactly where this was going.

"Regbo."

"Toby Regbo, a German scholar. Very brilliant." Riddle's lips parted and his white teeth flashed. "I paid him anything he asked for, just as long as I also return the favor of becoming his Grindelwald. Finish where Gellert left off against Dumbledore and continue his regime. Regbo was easily manipulated and he began his research."

"And you had no intentions of becoming Grindelwald, not when you intended to make a name for yourself."

Riddle's sharp cheekbones seemed rather prominent as he gazed intensely at Harry. "You know me so well."

"So what?" Harry shot back fiercely. "Regbo established a group, the same group my mother was in, and they created a cure for you. She decided not to give it up, so you had her tortured. Some… nameless woman who would not surrender the cure. Isn't that right? You didn't know her name, or the name of the family members taken to get her to cooperate. You just wanted that cure. So Regbo planned everything. The torture. The torturers. Everything."

"Essentially. Yes."

Harry stared and Riddle stared back.

"It's just as I imagined," Harry whispered. He threw his tumbler into the fire. It shattered on impact and the flames roared back to life for a brief moment before dying back down. "You really don't give a fuck about the identity of those under you."

"There are hundreds of people beneath me, Harry. At the time, Merope was on her deathbed. I couldn't have cared a less who was being tortured, so long as I received the cure in time."

He seemed so nonchalant about it, so upfront.

Harry turned away, running a hand through his hair and considering the development. It really was what he'd imagined. Riddle was too big, his stretch was too far to keep track of the identities of those following him. What he hadn't predicted was this, all _this,_ was to find a cure for Riddle's dying mother.

If the situation were reversed, wouldn't Harry do the same thing?

He stood up, disgusted with himself for giving Riddle excuses. He should be irate, not understanding.

"Where are you going?" Riddle demanded sharply upon Harry's sudden retreat. "I don't want you roaming about unprotected—"

"It didn't work, did it?" Harry interrupted calmly. He turned back around and watched as Riddle stood up from his position by the fire. "If I recall correctly, Merope died around that time. All that torture and death really didn't help matters, did it?"

Before he could turn his back on Riddle, the man spoke once more.

"You tell me."

Harry flashed the man a cruel look. "Excuse me?"

Riddle, who'd looked so out of place earlier, suddenly reestablished his elusive and powerful aura. He smiled at Harry, his amusement far from good-natured and every bit cruel. "They gave you the cure to test your mother's claim. They also gave it to your father. Only you survived. And it wasn't a _cure._ "

Unsettled with the claim, Harry could only stand there silently.

"Your mother," Riddle continued softly, "Stumbled unknowingly upon immortality by conducting rather unorthodox and extremely immoral experiments."

"Immortality," Harry repeated blankly. "You do realize I nearly died yesterday."

"There are varying degrees of immortality. Just because you are immortal does not mean you are immune to death." Riddle lifted his brows. "I am at a loss as to whether the stab wound would have truly killed you, though I wasn't going to risk your life to find out."

"I'd say," a new voice rang out across the pitch. "That your immortality mirrors a vampire. They are immortal, but a stake through the heart can kill us instantly. Or… other means, of course."

Harry turned, not at all surprised to see William Stratton appear out of nowhere. Only, this time, he wasn't wearing his usual dark glasses. Sharp, gold eyes stared at Harry, proof that he was not a blind therapist at all, but a magical creature.

Stratton suddenly smiled and clapped his hands happily; easily overlooking Riddle's darkening countenance. "I'm so glad to see you two come _together_ and unite. I believe it's time we finally get the answers _all_ of us have been waiting for, don't you think Mr. Riddle?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a cliffhanger, kind of not. *Shrugs* At least it's out earlier than usual, no?


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A TON of dialogue … at least from Stratton. MANY questions answered in this chapter. Thanks to those of you who reviewed!
> 
> Warnings: Excessive dialogue, unintentional typos, severe grammatical errors, and wicked cliffhangers.

**30\. Chapter Thirty**

" _I… didn't want them to suffer."_

" _Isn't it great? We took down a_ nest, _Lily. A whole vampire nest! Unbelievable."_

_Lily turned to look at her coworker, unable to stop her mouth from falling open at his gratified expression. On the other side of the glass, animalistic screeches sounded as the creature in question was poked, prodded, and dissected open. He was conscious to it all. She avoided that scene entirely, focused solely on her colleague's stretching grin. In her stomach, she felt a weight, a weight that burned and seared from within._

_Sam turned and smiled at her. "And it was all your idea." He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "We're all proud. You should be the one in there, doing the honors. No one ever considered studying a vampire's rapidly regenerating makeup." Adjusting his glasses, he flashed the observation glass one last longing look before walking down the hallway._

_Green eyes watched him go, spying Remus lingering further down the hall. His expression was grim, as it had been since Tonks' death. Only, a small, relieved smile crossed his lips, nearly lighting his entire demeanor._

_He was pleased as well. They'd both planned this out, but Lily had been the one to stumble across a possible breakthrough in their work by using vampires. Remus had been ecstatic, gleeful even. At the time, Lily hadn't fully comprehended what her actions would result in, but seeing it now, seeing it in the flesh, tore her apart._

_She turned back and watched through wide, unseeing eyes as the king thrashed and screamed, his fangs bared and his hands clenched horribly. They were interested in the magical core, especially, and the venom running through their veins. At the time, that's all Lily was interested in as well. They were creatures, after all, /animals/ who'd slain Tonks._

_She'd never been more wrong, more unprepared for the gravity of her mistake._

_Oh god, what had she done?_

"Stratton," Harry acknowledged.

Anyone could tell from his tone that he was unsurprised to see the man here. After all, he'd gotten used to the Stratton's sudden and odd appearances, not to mention wickedly convenient timing. Looking at Tom, however, Harry noticed the Dark Lord was on edge. His magic slowly unfolded in an effort to appear more frightening and his expression was hostile.

The man actually had the _audacity_ to position his body in front of Harry, blocking him from Stratton's line of sight.

Harry's eyes narrowed with insult.

"No need to be on the defensive, Tom," Stratton crooned.

"Fortunately I am never on the _defense,_ but rather the _offense._ " Riddle's fingers twitched at his sides. "It was you all along, wasn't it? Protecting him? I always believed it was his mother's doing. A dying wish or a ritual. A mother's _love._ "

"In a way, you're right. It has everything to do with Lily Potter." Stratton stepped around Riddle, yet maintained a respectable distance. He looked to Harry, a mysterious grin in place. "Only, it has nothing to do with dying wishes or rituals and everything to do with her repentance and extreme remorse. If it wasn't for Lily, why, I wouldn't be here today, now would I?"

Harry looked between Stratton and Riddle, sensing the animosity between the two men. He knew they were unacquainted, Riddle more so than Stratton. Stratton knew things. He always knew things. By proxy, he would know all about Riddle and that, in itself, probably set Riddle's teeth on edge. He did not appreciate being at a disadvantage.

Stratton's grin suddenly died. "Of course, if it weren't for Lily, I wouldn't have lost half my nest and my king."

"Perhaps," Harry started deliberately, "You can start from the beginning, Stratton." He raised an eyebrow. "If William Stratton is really your name." His head was still a bit light from the bourbon he drank, yet it did nothing to dull his astuteness. "And what do you mean by _protection,_ exactly?"

Here, he addressed the question to Riddle. Unsurprising, the man kept things from him. How would he know Harry had something protecting him? That implied that Harry had needed protection from Riddle at some point and Riddle discovered the _protection_ that way. Had the Dark Lord tried to kill him once? Attack him in the beginning stages of their cat and mouse game?

"One of my followers was a double agent for Regbo. Regbo hired him to kidnap you. At that time, he was informed many other men had tried and failed." Riddle was not looking at Harry. He kept his eyes directed on the blasé Stratton. "I assumed there was something protecting you. I experienced no resistance, but there'd been others…"

"You are no threat to him," Stratton replied happily. "You, Riddle, are rather devoted to him, aren't you?"

Crimson eyes narrowed into slits and a slow hiss escaped his mouth. To imply the Dark Lord was infatuated and devoted to someone else was an insult. Harry couldn't blame the man. It was offensive not only to have a weakness observed by others, but addressed aloud by others. He looked at Riddle, wondering at the man's attachment to him.

"It is only natural you feel a _fleeting_ urge to protect him, Riddle. You can't explain that draw, that desire to keep him safe. I can, though. However, I am at a complete loss over your obsession and lust for him."

Harry took an advancing step forward, irritated at the lack of concrete answers. " _Stratton!_ "

Gold eyes flickered over to him, unabashed at the hostility. Fortunately, he did not continue to taunt Riddle. "Your mother was a part of Regbo's group to create a cure, though she did not know the details of the assignment, just the logistics behind the disease. She had the brilliant notion to use vampires. And why not? We are immortal. We are rather elusive. There hasn't been many studies on our kind, simply because we refuse to voluntarily submit ourselves to that kind of treatment. But, they took our nest by force and held us captive. Doing all sorts of fun experiments. Vampires are stronger amongst a nest, but if our whole nest is taken captive—especially our king— and subdued, we are crippled."

Something lurched in his stomach at the admission, that his _mother_ had a hand in that.

He'd killed men and women for less.

"They were idiots, all of them. They didn't understand the strong bonds vampires have with each other. They killed many of our brethren either intentionally or by mistreatment. When our king, Hendrik, died, we felt it painfully." Stratton's face was void of his peculiar humor and he appeared grim. "Your mother was far more delicate in her experiments. She drew a lot of blood, studied it, but kept us comfortable. We got to know her, I, especially, interacted with her often. Her delicate treatment instantly drew attention from her peers. Unwanted attention. She often argued with them on their methods, but they saw us as nothing but animals, especially Lupin who, oddly enough, is an animal himself."

He sighed dramatically. "It created a hostile work environment for Lily. Yet, I saw means of an escape. I kept on her, I wanted to get as close to her as possible. My top priority was to escape that hell with the others. With Hendrik gone, I was now in charge of the nest." Stratton crossed his arms behind his back. "And then Lily discovered something precarious."

"Immortality," Harry surmised dully. "Not through vampirism, but through medical and magical means."

"Yes."

Harry shared a look with Riddle. He wondered how much the man already knew. The Dark Lord knew Lily performed inhumane experiments, and he likely knew it was with vampires. However, looking at the closed-off expression made Harry realize that was the extent of Riddle's knowledge. He'd been distracted at that time, caring for Merope and searching for a cure.

He hadn't cared what the specifics were.

"Somehow, Lily extracted _essence_ of a vampire." Stratton shook his head and his long, tawny braid swung over his shoulder. "I'm at a loss of what she did, but she did it by herself. She extracted essence from the magical core and the venom, yet her _cure_ did not turn those into vampires. It made them superior. It made them excel in things they surpassed in their human life. You were rather the athlete, Harry, if I recall from Lily's stories. Fancy that, you are superior in physical combat and your Empathy grew even stronger."

He stared, unmoved. "What happened? She discovered immortality—"

"And she panicked. She only told Lupin and Lupin told Regbo. Around that time, Merope Gaunt was dying. Lily, of course, didn't know _why_ they'd all been hired to create a cure for this mysterious illness, but as soon as she realized what she created, she ran. She set us loose, but she didn't run fast enough, nor did she destroy her creation as she should have." Stratton lifted his brows. "Can you imagine what the Wizarding world would do if they found out about this magical injection of immortality? There would be no vampires left—"

"Or simply, more vampires would be created for the sole purpose of generating more immortality serum," Riddle injected smoothly.

"Aw, but there is a small hitch in that plan, as ingenious as it is." Stratton pressed his hands together in front of his chest before interlocking them. "You see, one injection," here, he pressed his two index fingers together to form a 'one'. "Held the essence of _one_ vampire. You couldn't divide the essence of a vampire among many injections; it was all in one, large injection. The essence of a _single_ vampire."

"You!" Stratton leaped towards Harry in a blink of an eye and pressed his fingertips against the younger man's chest. "When Lily could no longer hold against the torture, she gave the location of five vials. Five. The only ones she created. To test if she was telling the truth of whether they truly held a _cure,_ or a poison, they injected them inside you and your father. Your father went first and he died instantly. But you… you…"

Harry stared into Stratton's piercing gold eyes, intrigued despite himself. What this was… it was ridiculous, yet utterly explainable, as loath as he was to admit it. He'd worked very hard to achieve his physical superiority, yet, even Harry admitted he was leaps and bounds in front of others. He excelled easily. It was _easy_ for him.

And his Empathy.

He'd begged Severus Snape to teach him Occlumency, simply because his Empathy had exploded while in captivity.

"You," Stratton continued softly, "Were injected with the essence of our king, Hendrik. For some reason, his essence bonded with you. As soon as you were injected, we all felt as if he'd returned to life." His fingers softened their prod on Harry's chest. "I followed the pull toward the abandoned warehouse you and your parents were. It was too late to save them, but you…"

"You decided to stick close to me because I hold the spirit of your lost king."

"Yes and no." Stratton cocked his head to the side. "My pull towards you is there, but it isn't strong. I could have easily ignored it, but you intrigued me. For whatever reason, Hendrik decided to live on through _you_." He dropped his hands. "And I imagine the pull for our brooding Dark Lord over there is also present, simply because his injection belonged to Hendrik's first guard."

" _Ah_ ," Harry grunted, suddenly numb. He looked at Riddle. "You took the injection?"

Of course he had.

Riddle was the perfect image of an apathetic statue. His young features, his brilliant charm, and his overpowering magic. He'd taken the injection just as well, it had emphasized his inborn talents, but at the time, he couldn't have known that it was the gift of immortality. Unless… unless Lily had told Remus what she'd discovered.

And Regbo had known.

"I was told that the cure could possibly be immortality. They had no solid evidence, with the exception of a sole survivor, but time was running out," Riddle responded quietly. "Skeptical at first, I made Regbo take it in front of me. Only when he survived, did I take it as well. Feeling comfortable enough with the effects, I gave it to Merope. She died, just like your father. Immediately."

Rather risky. He was surprised Riddle had trusted them enough to inject something into both himself and his mother. It sounded as if Riddle was both desperate and lustful over the thought of immortality.

He couldn't picture Tom Riddle being afraid of death, but then again, didn't _Voldemort_ mean "flight of death" in French?

"All five vials were used," Harry quipped bitterly, turning to look at Stratton. "Why didn't it work on my father and Merope Gaunt?"

"It was all by chance, Harry." Stratton took a few steps back, removing himself from Harry's personal space. "It took me a long time to theorize why some lived while others died. _You_ are the key. Hendrik was our king. Riddle was injected with the first guard; Regbo received the essence of Hendrik's second guard. His two most loyal, most devoted followers recognized that their king lived on through you, thus they bonded with Riddle and Regbo, creating a successful transfusion."

"The _sheer_ magic that must have been involved into creating this," Riddle trailed off, his eyes distant, yet dilated. "Lily Potter was ingenious."

"It still doesn't explain why Merope and James died," Harry argued. His mind raced as he ran over the information given to him. "You said your whole nest was taken captive. I can understand why James would die from the injection. The vampire he was injected with couldn't recognize his king anywhere, because I wasn't injected yet."

" _Exactly_!" Stratton smiled widely, showing off a set of incisors. "The injection did not bond with James, because it had no anchor." He looked at the silent and observing Riddle. "There were many vampires who died while in Regbo's captivity, but I can only assume that Merope was given the essence of one of the newborns. They hadn't formed a strong attachment with our king, therefore, felt no reason to bond with her."

A first guard, huh?

Harry studied Riddle's profile, suddenly feeling upset. Bitter, more like it.

"Does it make you feel better?" Harry asked, drawing Riddle's sharp, undivided attention. "Your infatuation is explained. _This,_ " he motioned between the two of them. "Is simply because of the past lives we carry inside us."

Something crossed Riddle's features, something dark and irate. It was almost as if Harry had insulted him.

"You think me that _weak_?"

"Aw, a good, lover's angst." Stratton tittered. "While I'd love to prolong this drama and become a fly on the wall, I must confess. You misunderstand the situation, Harry, dear. As do most humans. You see, Riddle was injected with Hendrik's _first guard._ The first guard is incapable of feeling lust, love, or anything of the sort. Once titled the position of first guard, they voluntarily surrender their emotions and personality. Their one and only mindset is the protection of the king."

Harry ignored Riddle's continued stare in favor of watching Stratton. He _hated_ how relieved he felt at the information. Riddle was acting on his own, free will. He did not have the spirit of a vampire influencing him. His treatment of Harry was his alone. Of course, that suddenly shed light on his unwilling urge to protect Harry.

That, in itself, would explain Salazar's wand.

Voldemort felt disadvantaged over his unexplainable urge to protect him. He'd want to be on equal grounds. But what really was the properties of the wand? Was it really protection? Or was it something else entirely?

"And Regbo?" Riddle inquired lazily. "The essence inside him belongs to the second guard. Are they likewise _wiped clean_ as the first guard?"

Something seemed to tickle Stratton quite a bit, for his cheeks strained in order to accommodate his grin. "Oh, no. Rumor has it, Hendrik and his second guard were rather _close._ " Here, he winked at Harry upon Riddle's darkening aura. "But I know better. I was close to Hendrik, as I was his successor. He was rather promiscuous, but he never bed his second guard. Regbo, on the other hand, I cannot say for certain, but he wants Harry quite badly."

"For immortality," Riddle hissed. "He was forced to use the interjection on himself, rather than give it to Gellert Grindelwald. He'd want Harry for his blood, to try to replicate the injection. He most likely came to the conclusion that the success of the _cure_ relied on the nesting habits of the vampires."

"Perhaps, though he will never be able to replicate the injection. What Lily accomplished was by chance. It was by _fate_ ," Stratton emphasized. "No one would be able to replicate what happened, simply because Hendrik bonded with Harry. I'd like to consider it was his own, free will. He saw something in Harry and wanted to continue to live through him. If it weren't for Harry, you and Regbo would have died upon injection."

Here, Harry laughed. "What you're describing, Stratton, is something akin to _souls_ and _spirits._ You cannot bottle that and give it as an injection."

"Almost like a Horcrux," Riddle mused thoughtfully.

Harry narrowed his eyes at the term.

"Like a Horcrux, yes," Stratton conceded, "But not. Certainly far more complex." He looked at Harry. "Your mother made poor choices. Very poor. Yet, she made amends. Initially, I only wanted to manipulate her, but I came to care for her deeply. However, my first priority would always be to my nest." He seemed to hesitate. "She gave up her family to protect the discovery she'd made. The science and magic behind it. To repay her sacrifice, I vowed to keep you safe."

"By becoming my shrink?"

Stratton smiled truly. "By getting as close to you as possible. By getting to know you."

There was true fondness on Stratton's expression, Harry noted. He wondered at the extent of Hendrik's influence in his body. Unlike Riddle and Stratton, Harry did not believe Hendrik _lived on_ through him. He felt no influence from another entity. Harry felt like Harry. He always made his own decisions and he accepted the choices he'd made as his own.

No, this immortality had to do with the vampire venom, or more accurately, the vampire's magical core and blood. Vampires often shared blood with each other. Once becoming first guard, a very _strong_ blood ritual most likely took place. It made the guard compliant and it linked his blood with his kings. Almost like an Unbreakable Vow, the guard promised to serve and protect his king. Upon injection, it would make sense that Riddle felt a nudge to protect Harry, simply because the blood magic lived on, doubtless of the death of its intended parties.

Blood rituals were that strong.

On no account did Harry believe in this _essence_ bullshit. But if Stratton wanted to believe it, so be it.

"You don't believe me," Stratton observed thoughtfully.

"Does it really matter?" Harry countered. "The vampire venom made us stronger and it made our inborne talents that much more emphasized. It made Riddle younger, but when have you ever seen an old vampire? We don't crave blood, we can't move as fast as a vampire, but I'd say, we are very much a magical creature."

"Then how do you explain the order of the injections? Why James did not live?"

The vampire did have a point there. Harry looked at Riddle, noticing the man seemed indifferent. The Dark Lord hid his thoughts well; Harry had a hard time discerning his beliefs on the subject. Riddle had seemed interested in Horcruxes and that specific branch of magic dealt with souls. Perhaps the man did believe in this rubbish.

"I don't know," Harry admitted, sighing. "Maybe James' and Merope's body just couldn't accept the injection. You said yourself that it took you a long time to theorize this. My mother didn't have time to study this in depth. Who knows? Maybe we aren't even immortal. Maybe Tom will still die of old age, but retain his younger appearance?"

William closed his eyes, a mysterious smile in place. "Then we will have to agree to disagree, Harry. You need time to accept this, I understand."

Harry watched as Stratton turned his back and retreated further into the shadows. "What now?" he called after the vampire.

"Now?" Stratton turned around with a flourish. "We have a war to fight, Harry, do we not?"

The very notion of more allies got Riddle's undivided attention. Before anymore could be said, however, Stratton was gone. Harry's mouth twisted warily. Trust the vampire to drop a bombshell and depart. Just what was Stratton's gain? Was it just out of the goodness of his heart that he told Harry about what happened, and by default, Riddle?

He had emphasized Harry's name when he mentioned fighting a war, and he looked pointedly at Harry, completely dismissing Riddle.

Perhaps Harry was thinking too far into it, but did Stratton intend to slight Riddle?

"You know…" Harry started, turning towards the Dark Lord who already had his exclusive attention. "We can use this to our advantage. Regbo wants me. I can play the bait and you—"

Red eyes narrowed into slits. "No."

It took Harry off-guard. "What do you mean _no_?"

His tone came out harsh, vicious almost. He was offended, why wouldn't he overreact? Between mourning for Sirius and finding out the details around his mother's work—his mother's sins and betrayals—and _his_ own immortality, Harry felt unstable. He didn't feel in control anymore. At his sides, his fingers began to twitch and _something_ … something he hadn't felt in a long time bellowed inside his head.

Turning his back on Riddle, he tried to suppress it. The urge. The temptation.

It had been quite a while since he needed to hunt. In the past, when _Custos_ found his victims, he'd done so out of a need to feel in control and stable. After a kill, he'd felt more at ease, knowing he'd gotten rid of taint in the world all the while satisfying his own need.

Aside from the sudden urge, he wavered at the edge from uncertainty. Uncertainty regarding his mother and her actions—she was definitely no Saint—and most pressingly, uncertainty towards Riddle. He should hate the man, now more than ever. He'd gotten solid evidence that Riddle was responsible for his parents' deaths, and yet, he felt as if he should stay put and strategize ways to destroy Regbo. Together.

"Harry."

He threw his arm out in a dismissive gesture and Disapparated.

**. . Dreams. .**

Kingsley sat at his wife's bedside and held her unresponsive hand.

The Healers confirmed he could take her home, just as long as he had the proper potions and charms to keep her condition stable. Fortunately, Rebecca's sister, Arleen, agreed to stay with Kingsley for however long it took Rebecca to wake from her coma. She would take over when Kingsley had to leave for Auror work.

He felt better knowing she would be under his wards, his care. The both of them. With the way the Wizarding world was going now… It was just better to keep family close.

"You summoned me?"

Kingsley's eyes widened at the abrupt presence behind him, never having sensed the man enter. He was facing the door, keeping a close watch on it from the corner of his eye. The only way for the man to have entered was through the window. Slowly, he turned, spying the dark figure standing in the corner of the room, near the open window.

"You live."

"Why had you assumed otherwise…?"

There was something peculiar about Potter tonight. He was not his cocky, confident self. He never missed the chance to display his face, nor his expressive green eyes. The man never dwelled in the shadows. He did not talk in a monotone clipped with impatience. Potter always had time to taunt Kingsley, to converse with him.

Licking his chapped lips, Kingsley stood up, gently tucking Rebecca's hand back into the mattress. "You took a nasty fall. Your friend, Mr. Zabini, had to carry you out the Ministry. You were bleeding a great deal." He narrowed his eyes on Potter. "Are you alright?"

"I have never been better." Potter stepped away from the shadows and looked stoically at Kingsley. "You sent a Patronus to me, summoning me to _here_ of all places." His eyes fell on Rebecca before searching Kingsley. "I knew you intended to reassure me of the neutrality of our meeting, but how could you take the risk with her? Do not make the mistake of trusting me, Kingsley."

Something dark and ugly slid down Kingsley's spine. There was no doubt something had happened to Potter. Darkness curled greedy hands around Potter's neck, darkening his brilliance, his goodness.

"You would never hurt her," Kingsley stated firmly, confidently.

Scrutinizing the younger man, Kingsley realized that life on the run, life without expectations and social norms slowly ate away at Potter's decency. When he hid his vigilantism to the world, he had interacted with friends and loved ones who were decent men and women. He was constantly reminded of who he was supposed to be and what kind of morals to keep close.

Without that mask, however, _Custos_ was free to come out and play whenever. The company he kept nowadays, such as Tom Riddle and Barty Crouch Junior, probably did not help matters. Darkness had a way of swallowing a man alive. Potter was standing knee-deep and quickly sinking. It wouldn't be long until he could not find his way back from the madness and the depravity. He'd be submerged.

Kingsley faltered upon this realization, feeling an unmistakable pang of pity, or more appropriately, remorse. He reached forward and laid a hand on Potter's bicep, squeezing it once before abruptly removing it again.

He had the crazy urge to reach into that darkness and pull Potter back into the light. However, he was not a naïve fool. He knew Potter would never be _holy._ He was full of sin, unforgiveable sin, but the young man had strong morals. Without those morals, he'd be a shell of the man whom many worshipped and looked to for protection.

Upon his sudden revelations and objectives, his strategy abruptly revolved. He could not appeal to Harry Potter for help, the son of James and Lily. No, Kingsley spent months studying the serial killer when _Custos'_ identity remained a secret. He'd liked to think he knew the man through those many long nights of research and analysis.

If Kingsley wanted help against Riddle, he would need to appeal to _Custos,_ the vigilante _._

The man truly wanted to help others, albeit in his own way. Perhaps Kingsley could use that to his advantage. "I contacted several foreign Ministries outside Britain for their help detaining Tom Riddle."

Green eyes slowly lifted from Kingsley's retreating hand to his face. "You're an idiot." Potter sneered. "Do you have any idea what they could have done? You do not know the extent of their loyalty with Riddle. They could have sent someone after you, to eliminate you upon the discovery of Tom Riddle's alter ego. Alternatively, even worse, they could have lulled you into a false sense of comradeship and played you for a fool. Destroying you and your little _group_ from the inside out."

Kingsley nodded, not taking offense. "I know. I hadn't realized how big his reach."

"His reach…" Potter trailed off, his eyes distant, yet still trained on Kingsley. "Is ridiculously large."

"So you've told me before. I had to experience it myself." Exhaling forcibly, Kingsley ran a hand down his bald scalp with agitation. "How—no—it doesn't surprise me that you know about the group we've been establishing as defense."

"Defense against whom, exactly?" Potter walked around Kingsley and sat in the chair next to Rebecca's bedside. He slouched lazily for a moment before giving Kingsley a shit-eating grin. "Against Riddle? You are aware of the second threat. Between two battling Dark Lords, your group will be a mere pest. In fact, your group wouldn't _survive_ the _reverberations_ of two Dark Lords clashing."

"It hasn't even started yet. If we could eliminate one threat first—"

"But it will start soon. Sooner than you think. You cannot possibly eliminate Riddle or Regbo within such a short time span, especially when Riddle has spent decades creating his regime."

"Regbo," Kingsley tested the name on his tongue. "Is he Grindelwald's man?"

"He's the second Dark Lord you need to consider," Potter countered. "He is very powerful, not so much by magical means, but he has the ability to coerce those who oppose him through mind control. And if worse comes to worst, you also need to consider Grindelwald entering this war. As of now, he is rather…" he paused, searching for the right word. " _Aggrieved_."

"Why did he wait so long? Riddle? Why is he still waiting?"

Potter scoffed and removed a pale wand from his pocket. It was a striking wand, very alluring. "Dark Lords are usually radical. They love to create chaos and fear amongst people in order to draw followers. Join them or die. But… you never truly hear of a Dark Lord winning, do you? Why do you think that is?"

Kingsley furrowed his brows and shrugged. "There is always another powerful Light Lord opposing them."

"Very true," Potter consented. "Albus Dumbledore's passing is just an added bonus to Tom Riddle's plans. There is no Light Lord opposing him, but I think there will always _be_ someone opposing him." He twirled his wand lovingly between his fingers. "Why the Dark Lords always tend to fail is because they start off too early. They are impatient. They think they have everything planned out, but in actuality, they are disorganized. They crave power and recognition too soon.

"Tom Riddle is like fine wine. He has these radical ideas, but he recognized that he was not ready to take that leap. He needed to preplan things, preplan people and reactions. He has accounted for everything. Everything, Kingsley. He's probably even accounted for a small, rebellious group to come out of his uprising. As soon as he does make that step into declaring himself a Dark Lord, all the pieces will fall in place beautifully."

Kingsley crossed his arms over his chest. "You sound impressed."

Potter looked upward, not so much rolling his eyes, but close enough. "Patience and restraint is an impressive quality to possess if you're a Dark Lord." He curled his fingers suddenly over the wand in a rather violent way. "I told you there wasn't anything you could do, Kingsley. I told you to—"

"Run, I know." Kingsley geared up, readying himself. He walked between the chair and the bed, putting himself directly in front of Potter. It forced the serial killer to give him undivided attention. "But this is my home. _Our_ home. Not everyone will support Riddle or Regbo. When they realize this, I want them to know there are people they can go to for protection. For resistance. I'm not going down without a fight, Potter. I hardly think Riddle stands for an ideal change, if kidnapping Muggle-born infants isn't enough to go by."

Eyebrows skyrocketed. "Then do as you please, Kingsley. I am merely warning you. No need for the fanatical diatribe."

Rubbing his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Kingsley sat at the edge of the bed and looked imploringly at Potter. "All those people who won't support Riddle will most likely die or lose their families. We need help. We need someone who knows Riddle, someone who is clever and not afraid to dip his toe into questionable methods."

Potter stared at him for a long while before laughing. "You cannot be serious."

"It seems ludicrous, I know." Kingsley shifted forward. "We are on other sides of the law, Harry, but I really think we are on the same side for _this_ particular issue. I need your help."

"I work independently. I am what they call _neutral_ in wars."

"Which is smart. You are a survivalist; it comes to no surprise that you'd want to keep your allegiances close to your chest. Nevertheless, I also know you feel obligated to help others. You strive off protecting those who are not corrupt, who are rather innocent in their own right. I know many of those kind of people will be in the resistance against Riddle. I'm only asking for your guidance from time to time."

Kingsley observed Potter, immediately noticing the line between his brows. The boy was truly thinking it over, yet he had reservations. And Kingsley had a feeling he knew exactly what those were.

"There has been some speculation you already support Riddle."

Potter's eyes sharpened. "I support Tom Riddle, I do not support Voldemort."

"What does that even _mean_ , Potter?"

The vigilante stood up and turned his back on Kingsley. "It means that I am loyal to the man, not the cause."

He seemed defensive, angry even. However, was he upset with Kingsley or their current line of conversation? Was Potter uncomfortable admitting to being loyal to Riddle? He should be. From what Kingsley observed as an outsider, the two had a peculiar relationship. One moment, they wanted to destroy each other, the next, they were defending one another.

He couldn't make sense of it, though he deflated with the admission of Potter's loyalty.

Just as he expected Potter to retreat, the man suddenly turned back around and reached for Kingsley. Only, the young man's hand bypassed him and made its way toward Rebecca. Kingsley sucked in a breath, his pulse racing with sudden adrenaline. Protectiveness surged within him and he lashed out, grabbing Potter's outstretched arm.

His fierce grip immediately slackened when he noticed Potter loosely holding Rebecca's limp fingers. Retaining a relaxed hold on Potter, Kingsley watched as the young man peered intensely at Rebecca's unconscious form, hardly deterred at Kingsley's abrupt, physical challenge. Seconds seemed to stretch on for minutes when all three occupants remained silent and still.

Potter's face suddenly softened, all hard and abrasive lines smoothing. Then just as suddenly, Rebecca's own features softened in sleep and she released a soft, content sigh.

"The antidepressants are flat-lining her emotions," Potter informed. "They certainly have a time and a place, but in this case, she needs to work through her emotions and confront the demons inside her. She's a fighter, Kingsley." He removed his hand and turned away just as Rebecca stirred from her sleep.

Kingsley turned fully to watch his wife, unbelieving. "You- you…" He licked his lips excessively, a tick to balm his anxieties. Running a hand down his face, he resisted the urge to cry with relief as Rebecca slowly woke from her coma. "You are destined for such great things, Potter. Your gift can help so many lives, and you just don't realize it."

Wrapping a reassuring hand around Rebecca's wrist, Kingsley eyed Potter's turned back.

"I will consider your proposal," Potter said quietly. "My advice right now? There will not be two Dark Lords for much longer. Either they will destroy each other or one will destroy the other. It's best to weather that storm and grow your resistance in the meantime. Get stronger. Grow in numbers."

Just as Kingsley was about to respond, an owl Patronus flew into the room.

" _Auror Shacklebolt, there is an attack in Diagon Alley. Backup needed immediately."_

Kingsley turned to his waking wife as the Patronus disappeared, torn between his duty as a husband and the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement. He needed to be in Diagon Alley to reinforce his men and defend the Wizarding community… but he also needed to be here with Rebecca when she woke.

Turning back to Potter, he was surprised to see him already gone.

Kingsley needed only one guess to know where he was headed.

**. . & Darkness. .**

Balancing at the very edge of a rooftop in Diagon Alley, Harry watched the chaos unfold. He walked in a steady and confident line, jumping to the next shop over when the rooftop promptly plummeted to an alleyway below. He paused and teetered at the edge, watching the groups destroy shop windows and set the buildings aflame.

With a critical eye, he examined the attackers. There were some wizards with royal purple robes, but there were others in their company that made the most noise, created the most damage. Judging from their unkempt and rather harried figures, Harry knew them to be werewolves. So the werewolves allied themselves with Regbo after all…

Rather fitting that William Stratton came out as a vampire tonight with the intentions of fighting in the war. Perhaps he had a bone to pick with the werewolves. Weren't vampires and werewolves like cat and dogs?

An ear-splinting whine filled the air suddenly before a loud explosion sounded. An acid green light blinded everyone present before a sadistic mark hung in the clear night. The Slytherin _S_ smoldered in the sky, the serpent wrapped around the mark coming alive. Harry stared at it, feeling something akin to a grin twist his lips.

Regbo initiated the first move.

Now it was Riddle executing the counter move. Lord Voldemort was going to make his appearance tonight.

Harry crouched down abruptly when he noticed the hooded cloaks swarm into Diagon Alley, arriving before the Aurors. The green mark in the sky reflected off their metal skull masks, giving them a malevolent ambiance. Then Harry saw _him._ Oh Merlin, but he was hard to miss, wasn't he? In all his smug and arrogant glory, one would find it hard not to admire.

Admire Harry did… with an obsessive and greedy eye.

Shaking his head at his ridiculousness, Harry hated the feeling that welled inside his chest. It made it hard to breathe. It was both a longing and a certain hatred that was far more whimsy than he would have liked. He hated Riddle one moment with a ferocity, but the hatred waned into something passionate moments later.

Forgetting about the conversation with Stratton, Riddle, and Kingsley for just a moment, he drank in Voldemort's grand entrance.

But the _magic._

He sunk lower in his crouch and stared unabashedly as the Dark Lord, blanketed with a sea of supporters, walked confidently amongst them. His magic spread around him in lazy, but noticeable waves. As if the magic possessed a mind of its own, it seemed underwhelmed with the threat before it. Harry knew that magic possessed a certain consciousness. He knew it would grow eager if excited, darker if aroused…

The latter bit Harry experienced for himself and it was delicious.

His fingers curled around the edge of the rooftop as he watched Voldemort confront a group of loitering werewolves. With a mere wave of his wand, all four bodies froze unnaturally. One by one, their innards tore through their abdomens and they slumped to the floor amongst their own mess of intestines.

Harry released a suffering breath.

Kingsley didn't stand a fucking chance.

Even if Kingsley somehow managed to raise an army for himself to bring down Voldemort, he still had to consider the mass of supporters that Voldemort possessed. The ones present tonight in Diagon Alley weren't all of Voldemort's followers, Harry knew. Yet, they still took up the majority, they remained loyal to Voldemort probably even after many years of inactivity and uncertainty if they'd ever see a change.

The best way to take down Voldemort was to go through his solid foundations and destroy him from the ground up. His followers. His money. His foreign contacts. Leave him isolated, destroy the image he's been building for the past fifty years. It would take _time,_ patience, and extreme manipulation. Kingsley could do it, possibly, but he started the dance too late.

Voldemort was already on top of his game. He would destroy Kingsley and his group before they could do much damage.

It was unfortunate, but it was true.

Kingsley's best shot was Regbo. _If_ and only _if_ Regbo did a significant amount of damage could Kingsley capitalize on a wounded Voldemort and act accordingly. Harry thought that was a very strong possibility. Regbo had the ability of mind control. Regbo could turn every single Death Eater against their Lord.

Hell, he could turn the foreign Ministries, who'd agreed to side with Tom Riddle, against Lord Voldemort.

No, Regbo was a very fierce competitor and Harry was truly concerned for Riddle. This attack tonight was mere child's play. As was the attack at the Ministry. If Regbo put his _mind_ to it—pun very much intended— he could terminate Riddle's regime. Completely. All with a few mind suggestions. With careful maneuvering, Regbo could have all those supporting Riddle dead within days. He would hardly need to lift a finger.

It made Harry a bit jealous.

Yes, Voldemort was without his right-hand follower tonight. She was dead because of Harry. Half the Inner-Circle was incarcerated because of Harry. Just as he'd mocked the other night with Riddle, he _had_ done a significant amount of damage to Voldemort's regime in a matter of days. Yet, he didn't bloody compare to what Regbo could do.

It upset him. Regbo posed more of a threat to Riddle than Harry did.

Despite his musings, what Harry told Kingsley today was true. He _was_ loyal to Riddle. He wanted the man very much alive, but he always wanted to be equal with the Dark Lord. Even though he may not do it, Harry wanted Riddle to know he could cripple him politically and socially.

_Nevertheless, you can cripple Tom Riddle in a more intimate way, a way Regbo couldn't even hope to achieve._

Harry considered the sudden thought, realizing that was true. Emotionally, sexually, intimately… he possessed all those things with Riddle. If Harry wanted to, he could play on those feelings and destroy Riddle through careful manipulation. The idea was both reassuring and revolting. He'd never do it. Never even consider playing someone like that. Yet, it was still there. It was still something Harry possessed as an advantage over Regbo.

Satisfied with that upper hand, Harry turned back to Voldemort. Just as the man turned his attention on another enemy, Harry slipped a throwing knife in his palm and threw it across the battlefield. It barely missed other wizards as it soared expertly through the masses of bodies and lodged into the throat of one of Regbo's men—the same one Voldemort set his sights on.

The wizard crumpled to the ground, an obvious blade protruding from his neck.

Voldemort turned, but before they could make eye contact, Harry stood up and intentionally looked away.

Riddle had this all under control. Harry was not needed, nor did he want to be here when the Aurors arrived. It would be slightly amusing to see what they would do. Team up with Riddle and force away the werewolves and Regbo's men? Or fight all two parties? After tonight, the world would know about the Dark Lord Voldemort.

As he made a step to Disapparate, he caught sight of a familiar-looking werewolf in the crowds below.

Remus Lupin.

Well now, he couldn't have imagined anything else that would have compelled him to stay.


End file.
